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Once it had been painted, Grant saw, but there was nothing left of the paint except a few grayish chips clinging here and there.
    A tall, slim man in light gray casual slacks and soft blue velour shirt was standing there, waiting for him, with a listless, bored expression on his angular, ascetic face. Grant had never seen such a pallid complexion; the man looked almost ghostly. His hair was very light, almost white, thin and straight and hanging down to his shoulders. Despite the silvery hair, Grant guessed that the man was only slightly older than himself.
    'Grant Archer?' the man asked needlessly, extending his right hand.
    Grant nodded as he shifted his travelbag and took the offered hand.
    'I'm Egon Karlstad,' the man said. His grip seemed measured: not too strong, not too soft.
    'Good to meet you,' said Grant. He heard the hatch behind him slide shut, then a quick series of clicks and thumps as the transfer tube disconnected.
    Karlstad grinned sardonically. 'Welcome to Research Station
Gold
,' he said. 'Welcome to the gulag.'
    Puzzled, Grant asked, 'What's a gulag?'
    'You'll find out,' Karlstad said resignedly as he turned to lead Grant through a second hatch and into a long, wide passageway.
    Gold
seemed even bigger inside than it had looked from the outside. The passageway that they trudged along was spacious and even carpeted, although the carpeting seemed threadbare, badly worn. Still, after all those months of tatty old
Roberts
Grant revelled in the feeling of spaciousness and freedom. Men and women passed them, nodding their greetings or saying hello to Karlstad. He did not introduce any of them, but kept up a constant chatter about what was behind each of the doors set into either side of the corridor: fluid dynamics lab, cryogenic facility, electronics maintenance shop, other titles Grant did not understand.
    Grant thought of it as a corridor, not a passageway. He was not on a ship any longer. This was a research station. Even though he knew he was walking inside a big wheel-shaped hoop, it looked and felt to Grant as if the corridor were perfectly flat and straight, that's how big the station was. It was only off in the far distance that the corridor appeared to slope upward.
    Well, he thought, at least I'll be in reasonably comfortable surroundings. And working with real scientists.
    After what seemed like a half-hour, Karlstad stopped at an unmarked doorway. 'This is your compartment, Mr Archer.'
    'Grant,' said Grant. 'Please call me Grant.'
    Karlstad made a polite little bow. 'Good. And I'm Egon. My quarters are just down the passageway, two doors.' He pointed.
    Grant nodded as Karlstad tapped the security pad built into the door jamb. 'You can set your own code, of course,' he said. 'Just let the security office know what it is.'
    The door slid open. Grant's compartment was roomy, with a real bed instead of a bunk, a desk, table, chairs, shelves, even a compact kitchenette with its own sink and microwave unit. It was all strictly utilitarian, like a college dormitory room, not fancy or luxurious in the least. Certainly, nothing in the compartment looked new or bright. Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant, even the thin gray carpeting.
    'Two of the walls are smartscreens, of course,' Karlstad was saying. 'That door on the right is your lavatory, the other one's a closet.'
    Grant stepped in and tossed his travelbag onto the bed. This is fine, he told himself. This is perfectly fine. I can be comfortable here.
    Karlstad shut the door and left him alone in his new quarters before Grant could ask him about the strange structure jutting out from the station's perimeter. But as he bounced himself on the bed to test its springiness, Grant told himself to forget about it. The people running this station wouldn't build anything that would jeopardize their own safety, he thought. That would be crazy.

    It didn't take long for Grant to unpack his meager belongings. His clothes hardly filled a tenth of the ample