peace.
The braking-jets thundered as Johnny depressed a control. Paresi nodded slightly as he saw the Pilot's hand move, for he knew that the auto-pilot had done it, and that Johnny's movement was one of trained reflex. The youngster was intense and alert, hair-trigger schooled, taught to pretend in such detail that the pretense was reality to him; a precise pretense that would become reality for all of them if the machine failed.
But, of course, the machine would not fail.
Fields fled beneath them, looking like a crazy-quilt in pastel. On them, nothing moved. Hoskins moved to the viewport and watched them mildly. “Very pastoral,” he said. “Pretty.”
“They haven't gotten very far,” said Ives.
“Or they've gotten very far indeed,” said Captain Anderson.
Johnny snorted. “No factories. No bridges. Cow-tracks and goat paths.”
The Captain chuckled. “Some cultures go through an agrarian stage to reach a technological civilization, and some pass through technology toreach the pastoral.”
“I don't see it,” said Johnny shortly, eyes ahead.
Paresi’s hand touched the Captain's arm, and the Captain then said nothing.
Pwing-g-g!
“Stand by for landing,” said the Captain. Ives and Hoskins went aft to the shock-panels in the after bulkhead. Paresi and the Captain stepped into niches flanking the console. Johnny touched a control that freed his chair in its hydraulic gimbals. Chair and niches and shock-panels would not be needed as long as the artificial gravity and inertialess field functioned; it was a ritual.
The ship skimmed treetops, heading phlegmatically for a rocky bluff. A gush of flame from its underjets and it shouldered heavily upward, just missing the jagged crest. A gout of fire forward, another, and it went into a long flat glide, following the fall of a foothill to the plain beyond. It held course and reduced speed, letting the ground billow up to it rather than descending. There was a moment of almost-flight, almost-sliding, and then a rush of dust and smoke which overtook and passed them. When it cleared, they were part of the plain, part of the planet.
“A good landing, John,” Paresi said. Hoskins caught his eye and frowned. Paresi grinned broadly, and the exchange between them was clear: Why do you needle the kid'? and Quiet, Engine-room. I know what I'm doing. Hoskins shrugged, and, with Ives, crossed to the communications desk.
Ives ran his fat, skilled hands over the controls and peered at his indicators. “It's more than a good landing,” he grunted. “That squeak-box we homed in on can't be more than a hundred meters from here. First time I've ever seen a ship bull's-eye like that.”
Johnny locked his gimbals, ran a steady, sensitive hand over the turn of the console as if it were a woman's flank. “Why—how close do you usually come?
“Planetfall's close enough to satisfy Survey,” said the Captain. “Once in a while the box will materialize conveniently on a continent. But this—this is too good to be true. We practically landed on it.”
Hoskins nodded. “It's usually buried in some jungle, or at the bottom of a sea. But this is really all right. What a lineup! Point nine-eight earth gravity, Earth-type atmosphere—”
“Argon-rich,” said Ives, from the panel. “Very rich.”
“That'll make no real difference,” Hoskins went on. “Temperature, about normal for an early summer back home . . . looks as if there's a fiendish plot afoot here to make things easy for us.”
Paresi said, as if to himself, “I worry about easy things.”
“Yeah, I know,” snorted Johnny, rising to stretch. “The head-shrinker always does it the hard way. You can't just dislike rice pudding; it has to be a sister-syndrome. If the shortest distance is from here to there, don't take it—remember your Uncle Oedipus.”
Captain Anderson chuckled. “Cut your jets, Johnny. Maybe Paresi’s tortuous reasoning does seem out of order on such a nice day. But
The braking-jets thundered as Johnny depressed a control. Paresi nodded slightly as he saw the Pilot's hand move, for he knew that the auto-pilot had done it, and that Johnny's movement was one of trained reflex. The youngster was intense and alert, hair-trigger schooled, taught to pretend in such detail that the pretense was reality to him; a precise pretense that would become reality for all of them if the machine failed.
But, of course, the machine would not fail.
Fields fled beneath them, looking like a crazy-quilt in pastel. On them, nothing moved. Hoskins moved to the viewport and watched them mildly. “Very pastoral,” he said. “Pretty.”
“They haven't gotten very far,” said Ives.
“Or they've gotten very far indeed,” said Captain Anderson.
Johnny snorted. “No factories. No bridges. Cow-tracks and goat paths.”
The Captain chuckled. “Some cultures go through an agrarian stage to reach a technological civilization, and some pass through technology toreach the pastoral.”
“I don't see it,” said Johnny shortly, eyes ahead.
Paresi’s hand touched the Captain's arm, and the Captain then said nothing.
Pwing-g-g!
“Stand by for landing,” said the Captain. Ives and Hoskins went aft to the shock-panels in the after bulkhead. Paresi and the Captain stepped into niches flanking the console. Johnny touched a control that freed his chair in its hydraulic gimbals. Chair and niches and shock-panels would not be needed as long as the artificial gravity and inertialess field functioned; it was a ritual.
The ship skimmed treetops, heading phlegmatically for a rocky bluff. A gush of flame from its underjets and it shouldered heavily upward, just missing the jagged crest. A gout of fire forward, another, and it went into a long flat glide, following the fall of a foothill to the plain beyond. It held course and reduced speed, letting the ground billow up to it rather than descending. There was a moment of almost-flight, almost-sliding, and then a rush of dust and smoke which overtook and passed them. When it cleared, they were part of the plain, part of the planet.
“A good landing, John,” Paresi said. Hoskins caught his eye and frowned. Paresi grinned broadly, and the exchange between them was clear: Why do you needle the kid'? and Quiet, Engine-room. I know what I'm doing. Hoskins shrugged, and, with Ives, crossed to the communications desk.
Ives ran his fat, skilled hands over the controls and peered at his indicators. “It's more than a good landing,” he grunted. “That squeak-box we homed in on can't be more than a hundred meters from here. First time I've ever seen a ship bull's-eye like that.”
Johnny locked his gimbals, ran a steady, sensitive hand over the turn of the console as if it were a woman's flank. “Why—how close do you usually come?
“Planetfall's close enough to satisfy Survey,” said the Captain. “Once in a while the box will materialize conveniently on a continent. But this—this is too good to be true. We practically landed on it.”
Hoskins nodded. “It's usually buried in some jungle, or at the bottom of a sea. But this is really all right. What a lineup! Point nine-eight earth gravity, Earth-type atmosphere—”
“Argon-rich,” said Ives, from the panel. “Very rich.”
“That'll make no real difference,” Hoskins went on. “Temperature, about normal for an early summer back home . . . looks as if there's a fiendish plot afoot here to make things easy for us.”
Paresi said, as if to himself, “I worry about easy things.”
“Yeah, I know,” snorted Johnny, rising to stretch. “The head-shrinker always does it the hard way. You can't just dislike rice pudding; it has to be a sister-syndrome. If the shortest distance is from here to there, don't take it—remember your Uncle Oedipus.”
Captain Anderson chuckled. “Cut your jets, Johnny. Maybe Paresi’s tortuous reasoning does seem out of order on such a nice day. But
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