Bowman screamed, "Larkin! Wait!" and Lorraine turned, smiling.
"Isn't he clever, Daddy? He's the best pilot in the whole, wide universe—aren't you, peachie?"
"Now, sweet—" protested Johnny modestly.
"Wait!" squalled the skipper. "Wait!"
"Weight, sir?" said Johnny, lifting out of his daze for a moment. "Aye, sir. If you think best—" And he punched the grav plugs. My knees buckled suddenly as the plates took hold. Bowman stumbled; Lorraine gasped. Over the intercommunicating audio came voices, a dozen irate queries from various parts of the ship. Bowman spoke with an effort.
"Not weight, you double-blasted lunatic! Wait! Till we see what we're gettin' into—"
But he spoke too late. The grip of the grav plates had done it. Our nose jets spluttered, the ship lurched and slithered, there came a sharp bump, surprisingly yielding and bouncy considering the speed at which we had grounded, and—here we were. On Caltech. Motionless, after weeks of travel.
No, not motionless! For then I felt it. Bowman and Larkin felt it. A squidgy sort of sinking sensation, a sort of wobbling insecurity, as though the ground were opening to let us drop through. The skipper, an incredible mauve color, roared, "Lift 'er up, Johnny! We're gettin' into something!"
Larkin made desperate passes at the control board. The rockets flared and hissed, turning the control room into a bedlam. But nothing happened. I saw why. I yelled,
"We ain't getting—we've got! Look!"