Tango Charlie could not be boarded.

It could be destroyed. But things could leave Tango Charlie. It would be only necessary to withdraw the robot probes that had watched so long and faithfully, and the survivors could be evacuated.
That left the main question. Should they be evacuated? (The fact that only one survivor had been sighted so far was not mentioned. Everyone assumed others would show up sooner or later. After all, it was simply not possible that just one eight-year-old girl could be the only occupant of a station no one had entered or left for thirty years.)
Wilhelm, obviously upset but clinging strongly to her position, advocated blowing up the station at once. There was some support for this , but only about ten percent of the group.
The eventual decision was to do nothing at the moment.
After all, there were almost five whole days to keep thinking about it.
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THE STAR PIT

"Hey Brother!"

The kid who was golden hooked his thumbs in his belt, as Sandy and I watched the dialogue from the rigging on the side of the hull. "I'm getting tired of hanging around this Star-pit. Where are you running to?"
The man who was golden clicked his nails again. "Go away, distant cousin."
"Come on, brother, give me a berth on your lifeboat."
"Go away or I'll kill you."
"Now brother, I'm just a youngster adrift in this forsaken corner of the sky. Come on, now-"
Suddenly the blond man whirled from the railing, grabbed up a four-foot length of pipe leaning beside him, and swung it so hard it hissed. The black-haired ragamuffin leapt back and from under his rag snatched something black that, with a flick of that long nail, grew seven inches of blade. The two bodies locked, turned, fell. A gurgle, and the man's hands slipped from the neck of the ragamuffin. The boy scrambled back to his feet. Blood bubbled and poped on the hot blade.
A last spasm caught the man; he flipped over, smearing the catwalk, rolled once more, this time under the rail, and dropped - two hundred fifty feet to the cement flooring.
"Hey!" Sandy called, when he got his voice back up into his throat, "what about . . . I mean you . . . well, your ship!" There are no familial inheritance laws among golden - only rights of plunder.
The golden glanced back. "I give it to you," he sneered.