An older man chimed in with something that sounded like an agreement to Farradyne's order; there was a very brief three-way argument that lasted until one of them fell for the lure of a dark pilot-lamp and an inviting push-button. The Semiramide bucked like a wasp-stung colt and the silver-dull sky over North Venus Spaceport whirled—
Farradyne was shocked out of his vivid daydream by the matter-of-fact voice of the Mercury Port's dispatcher: "Lancaster from Tower, you are a half degree off landing course. Correct."
Farradyne responded, "Instructions received, Tower. Will correct. Will correlate instruments after landing."
"Aye-firm, Lancaster Eighty-One."
Farradyne's solo landing was firm and easy; almost as good as he used to do in the days before—
He put it out of his mind and went below to Clevis and Donaldson. The latter asked him what had been the matter with the course.
"I hit a daydream of the Semiramide," admitted Farradyne.
"Better forget it."
"I came out of it," said Farradyne shortly.