“Make it a fin-point, Rip,” he couldn’t repress that one bit of advice.  And was glad he had given it when he saw a ghost grin tug for a moment at Rip’s full lips.

“Good enough for a check-ride?”

They were riding her flaming jets down as they would on a strange world.  Below the port must be wild.  Dane counted off the seconds.  Two—­three—­four—­five—­just a few more and they would be too low to intercept—­without endangering innocent coasters and groundhuggers.  When the last minute during which they were still vulnerable passed, he gave a sigh of relief.  That was one more point on their side.  In the earphones was a crackle of frantic questions, a gabble of orders screaming at him.  Let them rave, they’d know soon enough what it was all about.

Chapter XVI

THE BATTLE OF THE VIDEO

Oddly enough, in spite of the tension which must have boiled within him, Rip brought them in with a perfect four fin-point landing—­one which, under the circumstances, must win him the respect of master star-star pilots from the Rim.  Though Dane doubted whether if they lost, that skill would bring Shannon anything but a long term in the moon mines.  The actual jar of their landing contact was mostly absorbed by the webbing of their shock seats and they were on their feet, ready to move almost at once.

The next operation had been planned.  Dane gave a glance at the screen.  Ringed now about the Queen were the buildings of Terraport.  Yes, any attempt to attack the ship would endanger too much of the permanent structure of the field itself.  Rip had brought them down—­not on the rocket scarred outer landing space—­but on the concrete apron between the Assignment Center and the control tower—­a smooth strip usually sacred to the parking of officials’ ground scooters.  He speculated as to whether any of the latter had been converted to molten metal by the exhausts of the Queen’s descent.

Like the team they had come to be the four active members of the crew went into action.  Ali and Weeks were waiting by an inner hatch, Medic Hovan with them.  The Engineer-apprentice was bulky in a space suit, and two more of the unwieldy body coverings waited beside him for Rip and Dane.  With fingers which were inclined to act like thumbs they were sealed into what would provide some protection against any blaster or sleep ray.  Then with Hovan, conspicuously wearing no such armor, they climbed into one of the ship’s crawlers.

Weeks activated the outer hatch and the crane lines plucked the small vehicle out of the Queen, swinging it dizzily down to the blast scored apron.

“Make for the tower—­” Rip’s voice was thin in the helmet coms.

Dane at the controls of the crawler pulled on as Ali cast off the lines which anchored them to the spacer.

Through the bubble helmet he could see the frenzied activity in the aroused port.  An ant hill into which some idle investigator had thrust a stick and given it a turn or two was nothing compared with Terraport after the unorthodox arrival of the Solar Queen.