"Pretty sure of it. If I was right I could take it standing on my head without a harness, and I'm feeling better all the time. Let's hot her up and find out." "Not until after we've unloaded the passengers somewhere." Cloud went on, with the aid of Luda's map, to explain exactly what he had in mind. * * * * * "Afraid it can't be done." The pilot shook his head glumly. "Your timing has got to be too ungodly fine. I can do the piloting--determine power-to-mass ratio, measure the blast, and so on. I'm not afraid of balancing her down on her tail. I can hold her steady to a centimeter, but piloting's only half the job you want. Pilots don't ever land on a constant blast, and the leeway you allow here is damn near zero. To hit it as close as you want, your timing has got to be accurate pretty near to a tenth of a second. You don't know it, friend, but it'd take a master computer an hour to--" "I know all about that. I'm a master computer and I'll have everything figured. I'll give you your zero in plenty of time." "QX, then--what are we waiting for?" "To unload the passengers. Luda, do you know of a place where they will be safe? And maybe you had better send a message to Dhil, to call out your army and navy. We can't blow out that vortex until we control the city, both in the air and on the ground." "That message was sent long since. They are even now in space. We will land your women there." She pointed to a spot upon the plate. They landed, but three of the women would not leave the vessel. The Manarkan declared that she had to stay aboard to take care of the patient. What would happen if he passed out again, with nobody except laymen around? She was right, Cloud conceded. And she could take it. She was a Manarkan, built of whalebone and rubber. She would bend under 3+ G's, but she wouldn't break. The squatty insisted upon staying. Since when had a woman of Tominga hidden from danger or run away from a good fight? She could help the pilot hold his head up through an acceleration that would put Cloud into a pack--or give her that dureum axe and she'd show him how it _ought_ to be swung! The Chickladorian girl, too, remained aboard. Her eyes--not pink, but a deep, cool green, brimming with unshed tears--flashed at the idea of leaving her man to die alone. She just knew that they were all going to die. Even if she couldn't be of any use, even if she did have to be in a hammock, what of it? If her Thlaskin died she was going to die too, and that was all there was to it. If they made her go ashore she'd cut her own throat right then, so there! And that was that.