Gwen reached over and cut power to the computer. The jet stopped abruptly.
I tried to stop trembling. "Thank you, Copilot."
"Yessir."
I looked out, decided that the ground seemed closer than I liked, so I checked the altimeter radar. Ninety something-the third figure was changing. "Gwen, I don't think we're going to Hong Kong Luna."
"I don't think so, either."
"So now the problem is to get this junk out of the sky without cracking it."
"I agree, sir."
"So where are we? An educated guess, I mean. I don't expect miracles." The stuff ahead-behind, rather; we were still oriented for braking-looked as rough as the back side. Not a place for an emergency landing.
Gwen said, "Could we face around the other way? If we could see Golden Rule, that would tell us something."
"Okay. Let's see if it responds." I clutched the processing control, told the skycar to swing one-eighty degrees, passing through headstand again. The ground was noticeably closer. Our skycar settled down with the horizon running right and left-but with the sky on the "down" side. Annoying... but all we wanted was to look for our late home. Golden Rule habitat. "Do you see it?"
"No, I don't, Richard."
"It must be over the horizon, somewhere. Not surprising, it was pretty far away the last time we looked-and that last bum was a foul blast. A long one. So where are we?"
"When we swung past that big crater- Aristoteles?"
"Not Plato?"
"No, sir. Plato would be west of our track and still in shadow.
It could be some ringwall I don't know... but that smooth stuff-that fairly smooth stuff-south of us makes me think that it must be Aristoteles."
"Gwen, it doesn't matter what it is; I've got to try to put this wagon down on that smooth stuff. That fairly smooth stuff. Unless you have a better idea?"
"No, sir, I do not. We're falling. If we speeded up enough to maintain a circular orbit at this altitude, we probably would not have enough fuel to bring her down later. That's a guess."
I looked at the fuel gauge-that last long, foul blast had wasted a lot of my available delta vee. No elbow room. "I think your guess is a certainty-so we'll land. We'll see if our little friend can calculate a parabolic descent for this altitude- for I intend to kill our forward speed and simply let her drop, once we are over ground that looks smooth. What do you think?"
"Uh, I hope we have fuel enough."
"So do I. Gwen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Honey girl, it's been fun."
"Oh, Richard! Yes."
Bill said in a choked voice, "Uh, I don't think I can-"
I was processing to put us back into a braking attitude. "Pipe down. Bill; we're busy!" Altimeter showed eighty something- how long did it take to fall eighty klicks in a one-sixth gee field? Switch on the pilot computer again and ask it? Or do it in my head? Could I trust the pilot computer not to switch on the jet again if I fed it juice?
Better not risk it. Would a straight-line approximation tell me anything? Let's see- Distance equals one half acceleration multiplied by the square of the time, all in centimeters and seconds. So eighty klicks is, uh, eighty thousand, no, eight hund- No, eight million centimeters. Was that right?
One-sixth gee- No, half of one sixty-two. So bring it across and take the square root-
One hundred seconds? "Gwen, how long till impact?"
"About seventeen minutes. That's rough; I just rounded it off in my head."
I took another quick look inside my skull, saw that in failing to allow for forward vector-the "fall-around" factor-my
"approximation" wasn't even a wild guess. "Close enough. Watch the doppler; I'm going to kill some forward motion. Don't let me kill all of it; we'll need some choice in where to put down."
"Aye, aye. Skipper!"
I switched power to the computer; the jet immediately fired. I let it run five seconds, cut power. The jet sobbed and quit. "That," I said bitterly, "is one hell of a way to handle the throttle. Gwen?"
"Just crawling along now. Can we swing and see where we're going?"
"Sure thing."
"Senator-"
"Bill-shut up!" I tilted it around another hundred and eighty degrees. "See a nice smooth pasture ahead?"
"It all looks smooth, Richard, but we're still almost seventy klicks high. Should get down pretty close before you kill all your forward speed, maybe? So you can see any rocks."
"Reasonable. How close?"
"Uh, how does one klick sound?"
"Sounds close enough to hear the wings of the Angel of Death. How many seconds till impact? For one-kilometer height, I mean."
"Uh, square root of twelve hundred plus. Call it thirty-five seconds."
"All right. You keep watching height and terrain. At about two klicks I want to start to kill the forward speed. I've got to have time to twist another ninety degrees after that, to back down tail first. Gwen, we should have stayed in bed."
"I tried to tell you that, sir. But I have faith in you."
"What is faith without works? I wish I was in Paducah. Time?"
"Six minutes, about."
"Senator-"
"Bill, shut up! Shall we trim off half me remaining speed?"
"Three seconds?"
I gave a three-second blast, using the same silly method of starting and stopping the jet.
'Two minutes, sir."
"Watch the doppler. Call it." I started the jet.
"Now!"
I stopped it abruptly and started to process, tail down, "windshield" up. "How does it read?"
"We're as near dead in the water as can be done that way, I think. And I wouldn't fiddle with it; look at that fuel reading."
I looked and didn't like it. "All right, I don't blast at all until we are mighty close." We steadied in the heads-up attitude-nothing but sky in front of us. Over my left shoulder I could see the ground at about a forty-five-degree angle. By looking past Gwen I could see it out the starboard side, too, but at quite a distance-a bad angle, useless. "Gwen, how long is this buggy?"
"I've never seen one out of a nest. Does it matter?"
"It matters a hell of a lot when I'm judging how far to the ground by looking past my shoulder."
"Oh. I thought you meant exactly. Call it thirty meters. One minute, sir."
I was about to give it a short blast when Bill blasted. So the poor devil was space sick but at that instant I wished him dead. His dinner passed between our heads and struck the forward viewport, there spread itself. "Bill!" I screamed. "Stop that!"
(Don't bother to tell me that I made an unreasonable demand.)
Bill did the best he could. He trained his head to the left and deposited his second volley on the left viewport-leaving me flying blind.
I tried. With my eyes on the radar altimeter I gave it a quick blast-and lost that, too. I'm sure that someday they will solve the problem of accurate low-scale readings taken through jet blast and fouled by "grass" from terrain-I was just bom too soon, that's all. "Gwen, I can't see!"
"I have it, sir." She sounded calm, cool, relaxed-a fit mate for Captain Midnight. She was looking over her right shoulder at the Lunar soil; her left hand was on the power switch to the pilot computer, our emergency "throttle."
"Fifteen seconds, sir... ten... five." She closed the switch.
The jet blasted briefly, I felt the slightest bump, and we had weight again.
She turned her head and smiled. "Copilot reports-" And lost her smile, looked startled, as we felt the car swing. Did you ever play tops as a kid? You know how a top behaves as it winds down? Around and around, deeper and deeper, as it slowly goes lower, lays itself down and stops? That's what this pesky Volvo did.