"Okay." His voice was a terse crack in the interphones. The Aztec shuddered on its base, teetering, then its nose began to cant downward. It moved slowly in an arc across the sky.
"Take up," Larkwell barked into the mike. The guide lines tautened.
"Okay."
This time Prochaska and Nagel fed line through the winches more slowly. The nose of the rocket had passed through sixty degrees of arc when its tail began to inch backward, biting into the plain.
"Hold up!" Larkwell circled the rocket and approached the tailfins from one side. He looked up at the body of the ship, then back at the base. Satisfied it would hold he ordered the winches started. The nose moved slowly toward the ground, swaying slightly from side to side. In another moment it lay on its belly on the plain.
"Now the real work begins," Larkwell told Crag. "We gotta clean everything out of that stovepipe and get the airlock rigged." His voice was complaining but his face indicated the importance he attached to the job.
"How long do you figure it'll take?"
Larkwell rubbed his faceplate thoughtfully. "About two days, with some catnaps and some help."
"Good." Crag looked thoughtfully at Richter. "Any reason you can't help?" he asked sharply.
"None at all," Richter answered solemnly.