It was not Dick's fault. It was just a tough break that no one had
expected, planned for, guarded against. The planetoid was there beneath
them; they would land on it. It was as simple at that.
Only it wasn't. Nor did they have any warning that the problem was more
complex until it was too late to change their plans, too late to halt
the irrevocable movements of a grounding spaceship. Dick should have
known, of course. He was a spaceman; he had served two tricks on the
Earth-Venus-Mars run. But all those planets were large; Eros was just a
mote. A spinning top....
Anyway, it was after the final coordinates had been plotted, the last
bank control unchangeably set, the rockets cut, that they saw the
curved knife-edge of black slicing up over Eros' rim. For a long moment
Dick stared at it, a look of angry chagrin in his eyes.
"Well, blast me for an Earth-lubbing idiot! Do you see that, Pop?"
Pop looked like he had shared Dick's persimmon.
"The night-line. We forgot to consider the diurnal revolution."
"And now we've got to land in the dark. On strange terrain. Arragh! I
should have my head examined. I've got a plugged tube somewhere!"
Grampaw Moseley hobbled in, appraised the situation with his
incomparable ability to detect something amiss. He snorted and rattled
his cane on the floor.
"They's absolutely nothin'," he informed the walls, "to this
hereditation stuff. Elst why should my own son an' his son be so
dag-nabbed stoopid?"
"'What can't be cured,'" said Pop mildly, "'must be endured.' We have
the forward search-beams, son. They will help."
That was sheer optimism. As they neared the planet its gravitational
attraction seized them tighter and tighter until they were completely
under its compulsion. Dusk swept down upon them, the sunlight dulled,
faded, grayed. Then as the ship nosed downward, suddenly all was black.
The yellow beam of the search stabbed reluctant shadows, bringing rocky
crags and rounded tors into swift, terrifying relief.
Dick snapped, "Into your hammocks, everyone! Don't worry. This crate
will stand a lot of bust-up. It's tough. A little bit of luck--"
But there was perspiration on his forehead, and his fingers played over
the control banks like frightened moths.
There was no further need for the artificial gravs. Eros exerted,
strangely, incredibly, an attractive power almost as potent as Earth's.
Dick cut off the gravs, then the hypos. As the last machine-created
sound died away from the cabin, Bobby heard the high scream of
atmosphere, raging and tearing at the _Cuchulainn_ with angry fingers.
Through howling Bedlam they tumbled dizzily and for moments that were
ages long. While Dick labored frantically at the controls, while Moira
watched with bated breath. Mom said nothing, but her hand sought
Pop's; Eleanor cradled The Pooch closer to her. Grampaw scowled.