Brightly flaring, burning out, lighting space around for billions of
light years....
That was how it started, he knew. Unpredictability, variation without
explanation.... He sat back down in the control chair, feeling shaky
and weak and frightened.
By the time he had regained his balance, time-to-destination told him
453 minutes.
* * * * *
He guided _Phoenix I_ into an orbit around Earth. He circled three
times, braking steadily with his forward rockets until he entered
atmosphere.
On his fifth pass he spotted his landing place. How he knew, he didn't
quite understand, but he knew it when he saw it. There was a sense of
satisfaction somewhere in him that told him, "That's it. That's the
right place."
Each succeeding pass was lower and slower, until finally he was
maneuvering the ungainly bulk of the ship like a plane, wholly in
atmosphere.
_Like a what?_
But he was too busy to worry about it. Fighting the _Phoenix I_ down in
atmosphere required all his attention. Absently he noted the amazingly
regular formations of rock surrounding his landing place.
His hands flew over the console automatically, a skilled performer
playing a well-learned fugue without conscious attention to detail.
The overall pattern was clear in his mind, and he knew with absolute
confidence he could depend on his hands to take care of the necessary
small motions that went to make up the large pattern.
He did not think: Upper left button third from end right bank rockets
three-quarters correct deviation.
He thought: _Straight_. And his hand darted out.
The ground was near below him, now. He could see parts of the landscape
through the port, wavering uncertainly in the heat waves from his
landing blast.
Slower ... slower ... slower.... The roar was reflected loud off the
flat below....
Touch.
_Perfect_, he thought happily. _Perfect perfect perfect._
He leaned contentedly back in the control chair and watched the needles
of the console gauges fall lifeless back to the pins.
He whistled a little tune under his breath and smiled.
_Now what?_
Get out.
He couldn't think of the reason for it, but he would do it. While he
waited for the hull to cool, he dropped the exit ladder, listened to
the whine of the servomotors.
He opened the port and stood at the edge, looking out. His headache had
come back again, worse than ever, and he grimaced at the sudden pain.
Before him stretched the flat black plane of the landing pad, ending
abruptly in the regular formations he had noted before. They were
mostly white, and contrasted strongly with the black of the pad. They
weren't, he realized, rock formations at all, they were--