"So ... so by the time they've got that other boat landed ... why ... I can use rockets and get down to one diameter myself, sir! And they can lock onto us there and let us down a few thousand miles only! So we can get to ground half an hour after the other boat's down instead of four hours from now."
"Just so," agreed Hardwick. "At a cost of a little thought and a little fuel. You do have a promising idea after all, lieutenant. Suppose you carry it out?"
Young Barnes glanced at Hardwick's safety-strap. He threw over the fuel-ready lever and conscientiously waited the conventional few seconds for the first molecules of fuel to be catalyzed cold. Once firing started, they'd be warmed to detonation-readiness in the last few millimeters of the injection-gap.
"Firing, sir," he said respectfully.
There was the curious sound of a rocket blasting in emptiness, when the sound is conveyed only by the rocket-tube's metal. There was the smooth, pushing sensation of acceleration. The tiny ship's boat swung and aimed down at the planet. Lieutenant Barnes leaned forward and punched the ship's computer.
"I hope you'll excuse me, sir," he said awkwardly. "I should have thought that out myself, sir, without prompting. But problems like this don't turn up very often, sir. As a rule it's wisest to follow precedents as if they were orders."
Hardwick said dryly:
"To be sure! But one reason for the existence of junior officers is the fact that some day there will have to be new senior ones."
Barnes considered. Then he said surprisedly: