He guided Phoenix I into an orbit around Earth. He circled three times, braking steadily with his forward rockets until he entered atmosphere.
On his fifth pass he spotted his landing place. How he knew, he didn't quite understand, but he knew it when he saw it. There was a sense of satisfaction somewhere in him that told him, "That's it. That's the right place."
Each succeeding pass was lower and slower, until finally he was maneuvering the ungainly bulk of the ship like a plane, wholly in atmosphere.
Like a what?
But he was too busy to worry about it. Fighting the Phoenix I down in atmosphere required all his attention. Absently he noted the amazingly regular formations of rock surrounding his landing place.
His hands flew over the console automatically, a skilled performer playing a well-learned fugue without conscious attention to detail. The overall pattern was clear in his mind, and he knew with absolute confidence he could depend on his hands to take care of the necessary small motions that went to make up the large pattern.
He did not think: Upper left button third from end right bank rockets three-quarters correct deviation.
He thought: Straight. And his hand darted out.
The ground was near below him, now. He could see parts of the landscape through the port, wavering uncertainly in the heat waves from his landing blast.