"Enough fuel," he commanded. He struggled to stay ahead of the excursions. "Get your butts in the lander. Sharl, deploy the apple when Rhodes gets inside. I'm staying. You can't launch the lander without someone stabilizing the corvette."

No response was forthcoming. Precious moments elapsed. "Rhodes, Buccari, you copy? I want both of you in that lander now!"

Still nothing. Quinn caught a movement behind him. He turned to see Buccari and Rhodes floating on the flight deck, arms crossed on their chests. Buccari pointed to her helmet in the vicinity of her ears and gave a thumbs-down. Rhodes did the same.

"There's no time for this," Quinn groaned.

"Nice try, Commander, but we're not leaving without you," Buccari said. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself…sir."

"Buccari, dammit! I gave you an order!" Quinn was angry and thankful at the same time, a tough combination to deal with. "None of us is going to get out of here if I don't hold the ship steady. The gantry won't take the inertia changes. Even you can't get a lander out of this ship!"

Buccari watched Quinn wrestle the controls, the realization of the commander's words sinking in. "No! There has to be a way for all of us to make it," she moaned.

Rhodes had remained silent. "I got an idea," he finally said. Quinn and Buccari turned to look at him, expectantly.

"The skipper holds the 'vette down until we clear, and then he comes out the EVA port in his battle suit. We take him on board through the apple's main hatch. It's been done before."

"Sounds good!" Quinn barked. "Get going. I want you clear in five minutes. Go!" He returned his attention to the buffeting corvette.

Rhodes flew back to finish the fueling disconnects. Buccari went straight to the EPL cockpit.

"Opening bay doors," Rhodes reported. The big doors crept open, fluttering as they spread. Buccari felt queasy. Door interlocks signaled green, and she ordered Rhodes to activate the gantry. Mooring locks released with their familiar clacking sound, and the lander floated free—for an instant. It banged back on its moorings, making a sickening, hollow-metal noise. The EPL had become a loose cannon! The mooring points fell away again; the lander separated, elevating within the confines of its womb, straining the gantry attachments. Seconds later the lander slammed down on its moorings.

"Goose the gantry! Get it off the locks, before we bottom out again!" she yelled. She watched the doors wave and felt the lander move vertically. She knew the vertical forces were seriously deflecting the fragile gantry crane. The lander drifted inexorably outward, clearing the mooring locks with a glancing contact. "Not too bad," she muttered. The lander was made tough. While still inside the door overhang she pulled the gantry release, opting to drive the lander out with maneuvering thrusters. She accelerated clear of the corvette, timing the vertical oscillations of the door almost perfectly—almost! One of the EPL's vertical fins clipped the descending upper bay door with a resounding clang!

"Oops," Buccari mumbled into the intercom.

The EPL broke from the stark blackness of the corvette's solar lee and into the brightness of the sun-star. From four hundred meters away, the massive corvette appeared stable, but her stabilizers were firing constantly. Spikes of blue flame erupted from the thruster ports.

"Commander, we're waiting for you," she broadcast.

"Hate to leave…a real picnic," Quinn gasped. "See you in. five minutes."

Buccari marked the time. The nose of the corvette pitched downward. A rolling motion commenced soon after, both motions accelerating.

"Lieutenant," Rhodes spoke up from his operator's station. "I'd like to open the main hatch. Cockpit is isolated and seals are good."

"Roger, cleared to open the main hatch," she responded, concentrating on the EVA port of the tumbling corvette. Vertigo plagued her; she shook her head, again and again. She did not want to miss Quinn's exit. The spinning ship would send him on tangential vector, the direction unpredictable. She piloted the lander between the sun-star and the corvette to get maximum contrast on Quinn's spacesuit. Another two minutes dragged by. The tumbling increased in violence. Another two minutes. She tried to contact the commander on radio, in vain. He was shielded from her transmissions until he emerged from the corvette.

There he was—floating free, tumbling, an unbelievably tiny speck against the expansive bulk of the corvette, which was itself spinning against the infinite backdrop of the black void. She blinked, straining to verify that it was not just a vertigo-induced spot in her vision.

"I'm out, Sharl. Do you have me? I don't see you," he said, a hint of panic in his deep voice. His ballistic trajectory changed abruptly. He had strapped on a maneuvering unit.

"Tallyho, Commander. Coming out of the sun." Buccari pointed the EPL in his direction.

"Contact. Hold your vector, Sharl. Two minutes out," Quinn transmitted, controlling the rendezvous.

"Roger, holding." She brought herself back to the job at hand. "OK, Virg', let's set up an orbital boost. Get some altitude so we can think about our next step."

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant," Rhodes responded. "Everything looks good. I'm showing thirty percent fuel. We should be able to set down real soft."

"Rog, concur. I figure we boost eight clicks. We can afford it."

"You're the captain," Rhodes responded. The checklist was almost complete when Rhodes interjected: "Skipper's coming aboard."

Buccari glanced over her shoulder. Quinn glided to the open hatch, his maneuvering jets firing like sparkling diamonds. He retrofired against his forward vector, halting smartly at the mouth of the gaping hatch, hooked a foot on the hatch rim, and pulled himself through the rectangular opening. She returned to her checklist.

"I'm up," Quinn said tersely.

"Commander, we're elevating. Fuel's good, and we could use the time to think this one out," Buccari replied, not asking permission. He was cargo. "What's your state?"

"Six hours of air," the commander replied.

"Six hours, aye. Plenty of time," Buccari reflected. "Virgil, let Shannon know we're coming in for breakfast. Commander, I want you to remember this on my next evaluation."

"Sharl, if I didn't think you'd spit in my eye, I'd give you a big kiss."

"Tsk, Commander! You're much too old. Money and promotions will do."

Rhodes interrupted, "I fixed the engines."

"Some fix!" replied Buccari. "Work something out with the skipper on your own."

Quinn muttered something incoherent and obviously off-color.

"First things first," Buccari said. "Standby for acceleration. Buckled in back there?" Quinn replied in the affirmative. Buccari continued: "Two gees for fifteen seconds. Ignition. four. three… two… one firing now."

The primaries jolted into life. The small ship jumped, but Buccari's elation was brief. EXHAUST OVERTEMP warning lights glared ominously. She aborted.

"Nothing's going right!" Rhodes said over the intercom. "Systems check coming up." Rhodes's news was not welcome. "Gimbals trashed on one and two," he reported. "One hundred percent asymmetrical! You couldn't use the engines for a landing retro if you wanted to. With those overtemps, even the reentry retro' s gonna' be pretty stimulating."

They sat silently. The planet rolled by overhead, filling the viewscreen. Buccari watched the terminator approach and pass, the darkness of night a relief from the brilliance of the cloud and sea-reflected sun.

"Sarge! They're in the lander. Lieutenant Buccari made it!" O'Toole shouted.

Shannon crawled from his sleeping bag into cold dampness. Dawson bolted past him, pulling on a hooded jacket. She pushed O'Toole out of the radio operator's seat, pulling the hard copy from his hands. A hooded lantern provided illumination, and a tarpaulin hung across the cramped alcove preventing its glow from escaping into the nerve-dulling downpour. The lightning had stopped.