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far
         away from the planet that it could be seen whole through the viewports. The orbit was not quite synchronous—you could see the slow turning of Theron if you were patient. Asteria had never been so far offworld before.
       The station was a warren of tubes and gratings. The metal walls might once have been painted white, but now they were shades of dingy ranging from nearly black to a gruesome tan. Seen from outside, the Docks looked like an enormous wheel, rotating on its axis. From inside, it was grubby and claustrophobic. The shuttle captain had sent her to an arrival room, where a Cybot had scanned her in.
       Immediately, it told her to report to the transportation officer on Level Three, Radiant Two, Office Nine. She had no idea where that was. The Cybot placed a finger to her head and in a short pulse sent her the station map.
       So she knew to climb a ladder up three levels and go to a tubeway so narrow that it had recesses in the walls every ten steps—if you met someone heading your way, you could squeeze in and let the other person pass. This was one of the spokes of the wheel. It was under microgravity, so you did not walk but hauled yourself along by rungs set into the walls. It widened out again, and Asteria swung down into near-1.0 gravity, hanging by her hands for a second before dropping to the deck. Office Nine was just ahead.
       The transportation officer was a woman, gray-haired and sharp-featured. "I've seen your documentation," she said in an impatient tone. "A. F. Locke, bound for Corona. Why are you wasting time here?"
       "I want to wait for a ship," Asteria said.
       "It'll be a week before a ship bound that way docks here. You could have checked the schedule. Where do you propose to stay?"
       Asteria shrugged. "I thought I'd make do somehow. I can stay in the passenger boarding area if it comes to that."
       The woman snorted. "For a week? And how are you going to eat?"
       "You have rations, don't you?"
       The woman sat back in her chair and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. "Do you have money to pay for your keep?"
       "I have an account on the surface. In the town of Sanctal."
       "In care of the Bourse?"
       Asteria nodded.
       Making a wry face, the woman said, "I suppose you know how easy they'll make it to collect what's due. Girl, don't you know anything?"
       Asteria cringed at the word girl. So much for her brilliant plan.
       "You're a legacy appointment to the RMA, according to your documentation," the woman continued. "Didn't your father provide you with a travel allowance account?"
       "My father is dead." In a flat voice, Asteria told her of the raid, the wreck of the farm, and her decision to leave the planet as soon as she could—including her decision to disguise herself as a boy to escape the Bourse. She figured that it was best to tell the whole truth. They'd find out anyway.
       "We've had no report of Raiders," the woman said, scowling.
       "You wouldn't. The Bourse want to keep it quiet, and the Empyrion administrators don't seem to care—as long as they're not personally attacked."
       "Let me see what I can do." The woman rose from behind her desk, told Asteria to stay put, and left her alone. Asteria slumped in her chair, glumly realizing how difficult things were going to be. She had not really thought ahead, not beyond leaving the planet. Corona was seventy light-years and many weeks away. She had assumed that her appointment orders meant that any Empyrion ship that picked her up would provide for her food and accommodations. Travel allowance? She'd never even heard of such a thing. If they tried to send her back—
       She heard a sound and looked over her shoulder. The woman was back, accompanied by a muscular, middle-aged man. "A. F. Locke?"
       She stood. "Yes."
       "Come with me." She followed the man into the corridor. They were walking with their heads toward the