He’d just let her land, this first time through. He’d made his point; he didn’t want to antagonize Curval too much. Maybe he could persuade Curval to get the MLTV refueled and he could take her up again. Next time he’d try changing the landing site a couple of times.

That big old “three” started to loom up toward him, upside down as he looked at it, slightly obscured by the dust his rockets and the jet were kicking up.

The MLTV tipped itself back, to slow his forward velocity. He checked his numbers; the CRT display evolved smoothly to match what he saw through his Plexiglas screen.

The MLTV started to drop down as the auxiliary thrusters throttled themselves back.

Maybe that dip down was a little sharp.

York was still yammering in his ear. He needed to think. He watched his trajectory and tried to visualize where he was going.

Something was wrong, for sure. He was coming down too quickly.

He let another couple of seconds pass, checking his instinct. Yes: his trajectory was a tight downward curve that would bring him to the ground maybe a hundred yards short of the “three.”

Well, so what? Maybe the PGNS was out by a little; maybe all these damn reticles on the window needed recalibrating. If he came to a smooth halt in midair, but short of his target, he could blame fucked-up equipment…

But he wasn’t coming to any smooth halt. The lift rockets were cutting right back, and he was starting to fall, hard, toward the ground.

York and Curval were both shouting at him.

He watched the ground explode toward him, resolving into unwelcome detail, bits of dirt and dust and concrete ridging highlighted by the low morning sun.

He pushed the button to disable the automatics.

He didn’t waste time trying to straighten up the MLTV’s attitude; instead he just throttled up the turbofan jet and let it push him away from the ground. He felt a surge of acceleration, a good crisp couple of Gs, strong enough to keep him away from Earth’s unwelcome clutch.

He pulled up maybe a hundred feet from the ground. He throttled back the turbofan, and landed softly.

York ran toward the downed MLTV.

Technicians in white protective suits surrounded the trainer. Ralph Gershon had already climbed out. His hair had been compressed flat by his flight helmet, and his face, released from behind the visor, was round and shining with sweat. His eyes were bright red, she guessed from the dose of peroxide he’d taken earlier.

“You asshole, Gershon,” Curval said. “I told you that if you wrecked the trainer—” Curval towered over Gershon, his hands bunched into heavy fists. He started to chew out Gershon.