Shannon staggered into the dim circle of light, a thermal blanket draped over his broad shoulders. The low-hung lantern accentuated his haggard features, his grizzled growth nearly all white. O'Toole handed him the message.

Adrenaline coursed into Shannon veins. A water landing? In the dark?

"O'Toole, roust'em out! All hands. I want the beacon up within the hour. New location. Break out the raft from the survey package. Get Tatum up here. Move!"

Dawson pounded out an acknowledgment. "Anything special you want to add, Sarge? I'm ready to reply."

Hudson had joined them in the circle of light. "You have flares in the planet survey package, don't you, Sergeant?" the ensign asked calmly.

Shannon understood immediately. "Tell 'em we'll run a flare line down the east side of the lake. And give them the weather," he said, walking to the entrance. "Ceiling three hundred meters, maybe lower. Visibility practically zero. Raining. Winds calm. That'll cheer 'em up."

"Roger," she replied, typing rapidly. "Anything else?" "Just tell 'em we'll be waiting," he said.

"Roger that," Dawson replied. She hit the transmit button, shooting the burst message to the heavens. Shannon moved back to his sleeping bag and pulled on his rancid clothes. He shivered.

"Retroburn in ten minutes," Buccari announced.

"I want you out before touchdown," Quinn insisted for the third time, his voice rising in volume, as if the sealed hatch between him and the cockpit needed to be shouted through. The lander had ejection seats but only for the pilot and the systems operator.

"Sir, shut up!" Buccari snapped. "All due respect, of course," she added, teeth clenched. "Rhodes will initiate ejection—on my command, or sooner if necessary. I plan to ride it to touchdown. That's the plan." Tension remained heavy. Buccari forced her thoughts onto other problems.

"You sure this little ejection seat will get me out?" asked Rhodes.

Buccari snorted. "It'll be close. Don't worry about the seat. Just suck in your gut and it'll blow you through the hatch. I'd be more worried about the parachute holding your weight."

Rhodes forced a laugh. "Speaking of hatches, I've worked through the overrides. I can open the hatches as soon as we slow to approach airspeed. She'll sink like a rock."

"She'll sink like a hot rock anyway, assuming she stays in one piece," added Buccari. "What do you think, Commander? Open all hatches?"

"All hatches," came back the sulky reply.

Buccari detected fear in the commander's tone. He was powerless, and, in being powerless, he was scared. Buccari was also scared. Quinn had no chance unless she set the lander down on the lake. An unpowered, night-instrument approach through a black overcast—thick and solid—a bad bet! She had only one shot. There would be no wave-offs.

"Beacon's up. All tests check, Sarge," Tatum panted.

Rain poured in rivulets from the brim of his soggy cap, sluicing down to join the cascades from his poncho. Shannon peered into the darkness. In the distance a flashlight flickered, emitting a feeble beam, revealing little. Everyone was in position, ranging down the northeastern shore of the lake, ready to light off the survival flares. Shannon racked his brain. How was she going to pull it off?

"Good job, Sandy," he said. Tatum had packed the assembled beacon at double time over the sloppy terrain. "Nice night for a swim."

"Beautiful. Just friggin' beautiful," Tatum huffed.

Shannon took the flashlight from Tatum and held it to his watch. "Twenty minutes, I reckon. Let's make sure O'Toole and Jones have finished preparing the raft." He gave the flashlight back.

"Phoowee, she's running hot!" Rhodes screamed over the intercom.

"But she's running!" Buccari screamed back. The lander was pointed backward in orbit, engines firing against the orbital vector. Rhodes had disabled the worst of the nozzles, but damage to others created havoc with temperatures and fuel flows. "Ten more seconds, and we're golden!"

Seconds crawled by. Buccari retarded the throttle, and the EPL's engines quieted, along with the nerves of its occupants. She made an adjustment to the lander's attitude, pitching the nose around with a maneuvering jet until reentry attitude was set. The glow of plasma around the forward viewscreen cast a pulsing amber light on her drawn features. Buffeting rocked the craft. They were dumb, blind, and helpless, the intense heat and turbulence of the reentry masking all communications. The flight controls were useless until the atmosphere grew thick enough to respond. They were totally committed.

Leslie Lee lugged her drenched medical satchel. It was not designed for hiking in the rain; nor was she. Gravity punished her back and legs; her breathing was heavy, and she alternated between perspiring and shivering. She collapsed on the heavy bag, wiping water from her eyes. The poncho was too large, and the hood flopped over her face. Whenever she moved, she needed to push the hood back in order to see. Sitting on the equipment to rest, she pulled the hood over her head, failing to first empty the reservoir of accumulated rain water. It ran cold and wet down her neck, wracking her short frame with shivers.

She turned to search for Fenstermacher. Despite his bad arm, the boatswain had stubbornly helped her lug the equipment from the cave. She heard him slogging toward her, his form appearing in the murky downpour. She shined the flashlight beam on the ground, watching raindrops slap the surface of the lake.

"Anything new?" she asked.

Fenstermacher, carrying two flares, splashed up and sat heavily on the bag, making contact with his skinny hips against her round ones. She moved to make room, and he slid over, again making contact along their thighs. She had run out of room, so she just sat there, not minding. It was warmer, and she actually liked Fenstermacher. Strangely, everyone liked Fenstermacher.

"Nothing," he answered, short of breath. "They must be inbound. O'Toole will help with your first aid kit. I'm not much good with this broken arm."

"Nonsense; you helped getting it here. You should have stayed in the cave with Rennault. You have a long way to go before you're back to normal. Not that you were ever normal."

Fenstermacher uncharacteristically let the jab pass. "Hope they make it," he gulped in despair, putting his chin in his hands.

Lee looked at him and then put her arm around his narrow shoulders. Both of them returned their stares to the small circle of light of the flashlight beam.

The bearing indicator on the head-up display moved from the stops and settled. The lander had drifted north. Buccari reset her approach track, and the bearing indicator adjusted. Distance readouts commenced. Her landing window was good, but there was no margin for error. The EPL was flying. She gently wiggled the sidestick.

The large moon, in its first quarter, cast faint light on the cloud deck. The lumpy small moon was full but contributed less illumination than the dense constellations of stars. Ridges of dark peaks rose above the silver clouds, giving reference to her velocity. Marching away, far in the distance, rising above the mountains, lines of towering cumulonimbus flickered magically.