"Hold on, now," he said then. His voice was raw and it hurt to talk. There was a dryness in his mouth that made his words fuzzy and indistinct, and his tongue felt swollen enough to choke him. "I want both of you on that hammock--get that thing between you, strap yourselves down, and then hold onto it for all your life. When we land, get the straps off quickly, and--" he clenched his teeth, had to push the words through them, "--and have your swords ready. I'll take care of the rest; you just follow me. Understand, boys?" They nodded silently, strapping themselves securely to the hammock. Three seconds ... two, one. Release the top button. Press the panel full around, all the way ... there go the bow belly-jets--stern jets topside.... Top button, all the way in, twist it-- The Moon swam into the viewscreen, was shrinking fast, too fast. No, slowing a little.... He swung the screen to full stern, and Earth was rushing up, not quite yet filling it. Speed in thousands per second ... sixteen ... fifteen point five--fifteen. The needle fell so slowly. Gravs were coming up, one point five--two full. Over two now, and speed falling a little faster. Earth filled the screen. And then he took his eyes from the dials, for he knew that whatever they read, he was at the full mercy of the ship itself. The top button was all the way in, and locked. She was giving all she had. When the grav indicator quivered at four, Doug slumped to the deck, unable to stand. He rolled to his back, winced, and tried to keep his eyes on the grav needle. * * * * * They blurred, stung in oceans of hot tears. The shrill siren-scream of atmosphere pierced the thick, heavily insulated hull and Doug knew what was coming--heat, unbearable heat. His short gasps seared his mouth, and his heart was like a gigantic pile-driver inside him, struggling to burst its way through his chest. And then as though it had all been but part of a timed experiment in some weird laboratory, the sensation of being crushed to death began to abate. He could see the grav needle again, and it had already fallen back to two. Speed was now in unit miles per hour, and the figures were dropping from nine hundred. Doug forced himself to his feet. "Dad ... Dad, are we O.K.? Dad?" "Maybe," he said. When the grav needle was steady at One, Doug reduced thrust to hold them hovering at a little more than two hundred thousand feet over the Atlantic, with the coastline of what to him was France almost directly below. A sickening, quick drop and the horizon-ecliptic indicator showed parallel flight, and Doug could feel the thrust of the belly engines beneath his feet. Then he pressed the bottom button, then the middle, and the Atlantic was rushing beneath them. Carefully, he depressed the next one up. All the way in, he locked it. The velocity figure in unit miles per hour was fifteen thousand.