Norman frowned. "I thought of that. We won't try to land the ship. We'll have to abandon her and work our way down with the jet cartridges in our space suits."
Failles grimaced inside his helmet. "You can get awfully hungry in a space-suit, even if we can take enough spare tanks of air to hold out."
Norman nodded.
A figure detached itself from the huddled groups working the pumps and shuffled to the foot of the ladder. He pointed silently. Following his gesture, the pair looked at a corner of the bulkhead wall. A tear appeared, widened and ran down diagonally across the metal. Plates peeled off and fell like wax-paper crumbling in heat. Great blisters were rising on the surface of the wall. One broke and gouts of molten metal streamed down and spattered in a puddle. An uneasy suggestion of flow, of readjustment, of movement ran over the metal facing. More plates were grunting and buckling. They fell softly inward. More followed, dissolving rapidly as they came pelting down.
"Watch yourself!" Norman screamed. "She's going."
The place was an inferno. "She's going!" Norman yelled.
Liquid metal bubbled and spit. Runnels of magma pursued the retreating crewmen. A fiery surface lapped at the foot of the ladder.