All right now. Switch on your remote control, Phil. We'll take it from here. Stand by the coordinators....
The little ship bulleted down toward Oneonta Spaceport....
It was night, but a blaze of lights illuminated the Oneonta Spaceport. Hundreds of landcars stood on the parking lots, thousands of persons crowded the wire fence which kept all but port personnel from the field itself.
The old space-freighter sank easily to the apron and in seconds the rocket flames died. A surge of humanity ebbed over the field toward the craft.
Phil Mooney opened the pilot-compartment's hatch and stuck his head out, blinking in surprise at the mob beneath him.
"I don't know what this is all about," he began, "but I've got a sick kid aboard. There's supposed to be an ambulance...."
Police wedged through the crowd, convoying a white-haired, white-jacketed man. He called up to the spacepilot, "We won't need an ambulance, Mr. Mooney. I've already made arrangements for facilities here at the airport for immediate treatment."