"I hear it, Mac," Chastain gulped. "A big one, ain't it?" "Oh, yeah," MacArthur said.

They paddled desperately, splashing and gasping, but the noise encompassed them, dominating all other sounds. The river flowed firmly and smoothly, the current a living thing, a flexing muscle. The noise increased to a full-fledged, bellowing din, rivaling the sound of a rocket engine at full power. The pain in MacArthur's shoulder was eclipsed by panic.

The river fell from under them. Raft and crew soared into a black void. MacArthur screamed at the top of his lungs and separated from the raft. It was a short drop, but in the blackness it lasted an eternity. A maelstrom rose to meet them, and into it they were swallowed, jerking end over end, helpless, for eternal seconds. And as suddenly as they had been swallowed, they were ejected, flushed to the surface of the turbulence. MacArthur felt yielding contact; it was not a rock. A bull-strong fist grabbed him by the back of his coat and hauled him bodily to the raft. Half-drowned, spewing water, MacArthur grabbed onto the smooth wood with both hands and pulled his chest onboard. He felt Chastain' s great arm across his back, holding him against the bucking forces. Water washed over them. They struck hard, jolting and careening in circles, spinning into the wake of foaming granite islands, and all the while violently bouncing and plunging. Plunging and bouncing, the raft spun and galloped, more underwater than atop it.

The raft was no longer rigid; the bindings had loosened. A massive rock loomed from the darkness. The hapless craft struck solidly and held fast to the sheer upstream face of the monolith, pinched mightily by the overwhelming weight of an iron current. Magnificent pressure crushed them, pinning them helplessly to the raft, which was itself held in tight bond to the rock. MacArthur felt the raft flexing and warping, its bindings working looser. With gut-wrenching swiftness the lines unraveled, and the greater portion of the raft, including their packs, separated and carried away down the left side of the rock. Chastain' s iron-strong fingers dug desperately into MacArthur' s arm as the remaining portion of raft broke loose to the right of the rock, returning the sodden Marines into the crashing cascade. Within seconds, their meager raft was reduced to a single log. Both men, clinging helplessly to each other, grasped the splintered wood, the focus of their entire being.

"Commander, this sorry excuse for an orbit ain't going to last," Rhodes reported from engineering. Holding his breath, Quinn dared to exercise the main engines one more time, all but stopping the closure rate. The power plant, vibrating insanely, threatened to explode. Orbital decay alarms brayed continuously.

"Hang on, Virgil," Quinn responded, nursing the thrusters. "She's in grappling range in ten minutes. The maneuvering jets can do the rest."

The EPL was no longer a point of light in the distance; it had shape and color. Red, white, and blue strobe lights flashed with irritating brilliance. Quinn eased the forward vector with axial thrust, diminishing the rate of closure. He turned off the corvette's strobes, and the lander pilot answered, extinguishing her own.

"Coming up on you, Sharl," Quinn announced over the radio.

"Roger, Commander. Best approach I've ever seen," she answered.

Quinn played the vernier thrusters delicately, setting the approach vector. The lander drifted down his starboard side.

"Piece of cake," Quinn mumbled. With visual reference no longer available, he concentrated on the docking display. Despite excursions caused by orbital drag, he brought the corvette to a halt relative to the lander and moved the huge ship within range of the gantry. After some touchy jostling, the lander was secured in its bay and the hanger doors sealed.

"Too easy," Quinn transmitted. "Initiate boost when she's clear."

"Roger that," Rhodes responded from the lander bay. "Should be quick, the bay has repressurized. Okay, the hatch is opening. She's back."

Quinn acknowledged and returned to setting up the next boost. Buccari glided onto the flight deck. Her features were drawn and fatigued, but she favored him with a supernova smile, green eyes glinting in the white light of sunrise.

"Thanks for picking me up. Sorry about the short orbit," she said.

"Welcome back. Let's just say we appreciate your effort," Quinn replied. "And besides, we didn't have anything else to do."

She floated to her station, replaced her helmet, and plugged her umbilicals into the console. "Where are you?"

Quinn brought her up to speed, and she was immediately absorbed in the flight deck situation. Orbital decay was past critical. Quinn was constantly maneuvering the wallowing craft. Air temperatures in the corvette had risen uncomfortably.

"Phew, I thought it looked bad before!" Buccari said, checking the instruments. "This power plant is really chewed up. Virgil, whatever did you do to these engines?"

"Begging the lieutenant's pardon, but we used 'em to come get you," Rhodes came back over the intercom.

"Well, I guess they look fine then," Buccari replied.

Quinn laughed. He was excited, for good reason. They were going to pull it off. A short boost to a safe orbit, refuel the lander, and they could all safely return to the planet.

"Okay, stand by for boost. Twenty seconds at two gees," Quinn said.

"Ready here," Buccari said.

"Engineering, aye," Rhodes reported.

"Two lousy gees, baby. You can do it," Quinn exhorted aloud as he rechecked throttle settings. "Counting down… three… two… one and ignition now!"

The engines exploded into life—

— and stopped! Fuel pumps and compression turbines normally masked by engine tumult wound down with plaintive screams. A resounding thump resonated through the ship, more metallic banging, and then silence. Warning lights glared and flickered obscenely.

Buccari and Quinn turned to each other.

"Rhodes, start pumping fuel into the apple!" Quinn shouted.

Buccari was unstrapped before Quinn started talking. She propelled herself into the hatchway and through the crew area to the lander bay, retracing her path of only minutes before. Rhodes came through on her heels and took over refueling. Buccari jackknifed into the lander and started preflight checks, feeling as if she had spent her entire life in the confined cockpit. The corvette danced, pitching and yawing with increasing amplitudes.

"We're losing it!" Quinn shouted over the intercom. "How long?"

Buccari noted the fuel gages registering, but only a minuscule increase. She did a mental calculation and checked their position relative to the desired landing site.

"We have three considerations," she responded. "One is just getting out of orbit without burning up or running out of oxygen. Two is having enough fuel to do a soft landing—apples aren't famous for belly landings. And three, landing near our people—it's a big planet. We could land and never see the crew again."

"I got the picture! How much time?" Quinn shouted.

"At least ten minutes to get fuel for a controlled deorbit. I don't know where we'll crash, but at least we'll leave orbit without running out of air. It'll take at least twenty minutes to get enough fuel for a controlled landing. Could be over an ocean," Buccari replied calmly. "It will take almost forty minutes to get the fuel we need, to land where we want to, and expect to walk away, and that depends on when and where we leave orbit. Anything after that's gravy. Virgil, do you agree?"

"Roger, Lieutenant. Close enough for me," Rhodes replied.

Quinn fought the monster, not surprised by Buccari's summary. Falling out of orbit was the least of his concerns—he fought the jerking and flailing ship. Forty minutes raced slowly by. Quinn made up his mind.