Robert Heinlein - The Cat Who Walked Through Walls

"When we swung past that big crater- Aristoteles?"

"Not Plato?"

"No, sir. Plato would be west of our track and still in shadow.

It could be some ringwall I don't know... but that smooth stuff-that fairly smooth stuff-south of us makes me think that it must be Aristoteles."

"Gwen, it doesn't matter what it is; I've got to try to put this wagon down on that smooth stuff. That fairly smooth stuff. Unless you have a better idea?"

"No, sir, I do not. We're falling. If we speeded up enough to maintain a circular orbit at this altitude, we probably would not have enough fuel to bring her down later. That's a guess."

I looked at the fuel gauge-that last long, foul blast had wasted a lot of my available delta vee. No elbow room. "I think your guess is a certainty-so we'll land. We'll see if our little friend can calculate a parabolic descent for this altitude- for I intend to kill our forward speed and simply let her drop, once we are over ground that looks smooth. What do you think?"

"Uh, I hope we have fuel enough."

"So do I. Gwen?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Honey girl, it's been fun."

"Oh, Richard! Yes."

Bill said in a choked voice, "Uh, I don't think I can-"

I was processing to put us back into a braking attitude. "Pipe down. Bill; we're busy!" Altimeter showed eighty something- how long did it take to fall eighty klicks in a one-sixth gee field? Switch on the pilot computer again and ask it? Or do it in my head? Could I trust the pilot computer not to switch on the jet again if I fed it juice?

Better not risk it. Would a straight-line approximation tell me anything? Let's see- Distance equals one half acceleration multiplied by the square of the time, all in centimeters and seconds. So eighty klicks is, uh, eighty thousand, no, eight hund- No, eight million centimeters. Was that right?

One-sixth gee- No, half of one sixty-two. So bring it across and take the square root-

One hundred seconds? "Gwen, how long till impact?"

"About seventeen minutes. That's rough; I just rounded it off in my head."

I took another quick look inside my skull, saw that in failing to allow for forward vector-the "fall-around" factor-my

"approximation" wasn't even a wild guess. "Close enough. Watch the doppler; I'm going to kill some forward motion. Don't let me kill all of it; we'll need some choice in where to put down."

"Aye, aye. Skipper!"

I switched power to the computer; the jet immediately fired. I let it run five seconds, cut power. The jet sobbed and quit. "That," I said bitterly, "is one hell of a way to handle the throttle. Gwen?"

"Just crawling along now. Can we swing and see where we're going?"

"Sure thing."

"Senator-"

"Bill-shut up!" I tilted it around another hundred and eighty degrees. "See a nice smooth pasture ahead?"

"It all looks smooth, Richard, but we're still almost seventy klicks high. Should get down pretty close before you kill all your forward speed, maybe? So you can see any rocks."

"Reasonable. How close?"

"Uh, how does one klick sound?"

"Sounds close enough to hear the wings of the Angel of Death. How many seconds till impact? For one-kilometer height, I mean."

"Uh, square root of twelve hundred plus. Call it thirty-five seconds."

"All right. You keep watching height and terrain. At about two klicks I want to start to kill the forward speed. I've got to have time to twist another ninety degrees after that, to back down tail first. Gwen, we should have stayed in bed."

"I tried to tell you that, sir. But I have faith in you."

"What is faith without works? I wish I was in Paducah. Time?"

"Six minutes, about."

"Senator-"

"Bill, shut up! Shall we trim off half me remaining speed?"

"Three seconds?"

I gave a three-second blast, using the same silly method of starting and stopping the jet.

'Two minutes, sir."

"Watch the doppler. Call it." I started the jet.

"Now!"

I stopped it abruptly and started to process, tail down, "windshield" up. "How does it read?"

"We're as near dead in the water as can be done that way, I think. And I wouldn't fiddle with it; look at that fuel reading."

I looked and didn't like it. "All right, I don't blast at all until we are mighty close." We steadied in the heads-up attitude-nothing but sky in front of us. Over my left shoulder I could see the ground at about a forty-five-degree angle. By looking past Gwen I could see it out the starboard side, too, but at quite a distance-a bad angle, useless. "Gwen, how long is this buggy?"

"I've never seen one out of a nest. Does it matter?"

"It matters a hell of a lot when I'm judging how far to the ground by looking past my shoulder."

"Oh. I thought you meant exactly. Call it thirty meters. One minute, sir."

I was about to give it a short blast when Bill blasted. So the poor devil was space sick but at that instant I wished him dead. His dinner passed between our heads and struck the forward viewport, there spread itself. "Bill!" I screamed. "Stop that!"

(Don't bother to tell me that I made an unreasonable demand.)

Bill did the best he could. He trained his head to the left and deposited his second volley on the left viewport-leaving me flying blind.

I tried. With my eyes on the radar altimeter I gave it a quick blast-and lost that, too. I'm sure that someday they will solve the problem of accurate low-scale readings taken through jet blast and fouled by "grass" from terrain-I was just bom too soon, that's all. "Gwen, I can't see!"

"I have it, sir." She sounded calm, cool, relaxed-a fit mate for Captain Midnight. She was looking over her right shoulder at the Lunar soil; her left hand was on the power switch to the pilot computer, our emergency "throttle."

"Fifteen seconds, sir... ten... five." She closed the switch.

The jet blasted briefly, I felt the slightest bump, and we had weight again.

She turned her head and smiled. "Copilot reports-" And lost her smile, looked startled, as we felt the car swing. Did you ever play tops as a kid? You know how a top behaves as it winds down? Around and around, deeper and deeper, as it slowly goes lower, lays itself down and stops? That's what this pesky Volvo did.

Until it lay full length on the surface and rolled. We wound up still strapped, safe and unbruised-and upside down. Gwen continued, "-reports touchdown, sir." "Thank you, Copilot."

'It is useless for sheep to pass resolutions in favor of vegetarianism while wolves remain of a different opinion."

WILLIAM RALPH INGE, D. D. 1860-1954

"There's one born every minute."

P. T. BARNUM 1810-1891

I added, 'That was a beautiful landing, Gwen. PanAm never set a ship down more gently."

Gwen pushed aside her kimono skirt, looked out. "Not all that good. I simply ran out of fuel."

"Don't be modest. I especially admired that last little gavotte that laid the car down flat. Convenient, since we don't have a landing-field ladder here."

"Richard, what made it do that?"

"I hesitate to guess. It may have had something to do with the processing gyro... which may have tumbled. No data, no opinion. Dear, you look charming in that pose. Tristram Shandy was right; a woman looks her best with her skirts flung over her head."

"I don't think Tristram Shandy ever said that."

'Then he should have. You have lovely legs, dear one."

'Thank you. I think. Now will you kindly get me out of this mess? My kimono is tangled in the belt and I can't unfasten it."

"Do you mind if I get a picture first?"

Gwen sometimes makes unladylike retorts; it is then best to change the subject. I got my own safety belt loose, made a quick, efficient descent to the ceiling by falling on my face, got up and tackled, freeing Gwen. Her belt buckle wasn't really a problem; it was just that she could not see it to clear it. I did so and made sure that she did not fall as I got her loose-set her on her feet and claimed a kiss. I felt euphoric-only minutes ago I would not have bet even money on landing alive.