Gingerly, Doug pressed the top of the panel, released the top button.
There was a sickening drop as from somewhere deep inside the ship new sets of engines rumbled automatically to life as her nose came down, her belly-jets belching, breaking the drop on their cushion of power. And again the craft hovered, but now horizontally.
Tayne's corpse tumbled grotesquely off the bulkhead to the deck, made Doug miss his footing, and he fell.
But nothing happened. The panel, without pressure, had returned automatically to zero setting, and the belly-jets held steady.
Swiftly then, cursing himself for his awkwardness, Doug tore at Tayne's cloak, the blood-soaked tunic beneath it. Somewhere he must have it—logically, he must have it.
Something crackled. Doug smeared stinging sweat from his eyes as he bent closer, found the neatly-hidden pocket, thrust a hand inside.
It was hard to keep the thin, bound packet of wide plastisheets steady. Clumsily, he flicked to blank pages of Tayne's unused record tablet. In those he had examined at his office the campaign maps had been in the back.
And he found them there. Estimated deployment, Phase One, First Hour.
No good ... two, perhaps three hours had elapsed. Gamble on Phase Three.
Division Thirty, Second Regiment, First Battalion, 'A' Company. There.