The tower was still dark as Paul parked his skimmer behind it. The windows were shuttered, but the main door was ajar. He went up the stairs as quietly as he could. Lately, with the dormitories so crowded, off-duty communications personnel slept on the ground floor. All of Landing was crowded—with refugees, Paul made himself add. People had even begun to make homes out of some of the Catherine Caves. That may have originated from some atavistic urge, but caves were Thread-proof, and some of them were downright spacious. Caves might be a good place to lodge the fast-growing dragons, too.

As he reached the top floor, his eyes went immediately to the big screen, which showed the Moth’s position above Pern, relayed from the moon installation.

“He has not corrected his course once,” Ongola said, swinging his chair toward Paul. He motioned for Jake to vacate the second console chair. The young man’s eyes were black holes of fatigue, but Paul knew better than to suggest that Jake stand down until the shuttle was safely landed. “He ought to have fired ten minutes ago. He says he doesn’t need to.”

Paul dropped to the chair and toggled in the comm unit. “Tower to Moth, do you read me? Benden here. Moth, respond.”

“Good morning, Admiral Benden,” Nabhi replied promptly and insolently. “We are on course and reentering at a good angle.”

“Your instrumentation is giving you false readings. Repeat, you are getting false readings, Nabol. Course correction essential.”

“I disagree, Admiral,” Nabhi replied, his tone jaunty. “No need to waste fuel! Our descent is on the green.”

“Correction, Moth! Your descent is red and orange across our board and on our screen. You have sustained instrument malfunction. I will give you the readings.” Paul read the numbers off from the calculator pad that Ongola handed to him. He was sure he heard a startled gasp in the background.

But Nabhi seemed undisturbed by Paul’s information, and he did indeed report readings consonant with a good reentry.

“I don’t believe this,” Ongola said. “He’s coming in from the wrong quadrant, at too steep an angle, and he’s going to crash smack in the center of the Island Ring Sea. Soon.”

“Repeat, Moth, your angle is wrong. Abort reentry. Nabol, take another orbit. Sort yourself out. Your instruments are malfunctioning.” Fardles, if Nabol could not feel the wrongness of that entry, he was nowhere near the driver he thought himself.

“I’m captain of this ship, Admiral,” Nabol snapped back. “It’s your screen that’s malfunctioning … Whadidya say, Bart? I don’t believe it. You’ve got to be wrong. Give it a bang! Kick it!”

“Yank your nose up and fire a three-second blast, Nabol!” Paul cried, his eyes on the screen and the speed of the incoming shuttle.

“I’m trying. Can’t fire. No fuel!” Sudden fear made Nabol’s voice shrill.