“Geena, we’re coming in short.”

“The autoland is—”

“Going to bring us down in the wrong damn place! Can’t you see that?”

Now, he could see, she actually closed her eyes. “You don’t know that.”

He thought furiously, trying to figure out how this could have gone wrong… “Mascons,” he said.

“We know where the mascons are. We mapped them with Prospector. We allowed for them.”

“We know where they were. Geena, if we’re right about the Moonseed—”

“Oh. Maybe the mascons shifted.”

“Right. Geena, if we land right but in the wrong place, we’ve failed. You know that.”

“Henry, I can’t handle this—”

That wasn’t Geena.

Abruptly he realized she was descending, deep into some unexpected funk. He felt irritation rise; he felt like screaming at her, rerunning the breakup of their marriage.

But right now, she was the only pilot he had.

It’s the lack of training, he thought. They didn’t have time to desensitize her. She’s not used to being in a situation she can’t anticipate, control to the last degree.

But that’s where we are now.

He tried to concentrate on the altimeter, to read off their diminishing altitude. There could be minutes left, no more.

“Tell me about piloting,” he said. “If you don’t like where you’re landing—”

“You have four alternatives. You can go left, right, short, or go over. Going left or right is a hairy thing.”

“Good. And landing short—”

“You got to come down dead. You can’t see what you’re going into.”

“Like a copter. So—”

“You land long.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he could see a kind of desperation in her face.

“That’s it, Geena. Land long. Go ahead.”

She looked forward, as if seeing the fleeing surface of the Moon for the first time. She grasped a switch with her clumsy gloved hands, and flipped it to ALTITUDE HOLD.

The Shoemaker pitched forward, sharp enough to jolt him. Now it was almost level, and it skimmed forward, over unfamiliar, empty terrain.

“All right,” Henry whispered. “Five hundred and thirty feet,” he said. “Looking good.”

“Kind of sluggish,” she muttered.

“You’re doing fine…”

But the Moon rushed up at him — it was like riding a glass-walled lift — and new terrain swept over the horizon. A young, fresh crater slid under the Shoemaker’s angular prow. Henry made out details inside the crater: a square, blocky shape, a few scattered pieces around it, all of it casting long angular shadows at the centre of a rough disc of discoloured land.

The attitude thrusters pulsed, making the Shoemaker’s frame shake. When Henry looked down he could see his restraints rattling silently.