Bob gasped. He was too far to one side. He would land in the stubble. Also, he was a little too high.
Wildly he flung the flare he had been getting ready.
Then, from some hidden source of remembered instructions he got the instinctive knowledge of what to do.
He dropped the left wingtip by pushing the stick sidewise, and felt the ship tilt. It went into a sideslip. That both lost speed forward and got him further over to the left.
Opposite rudder, hard! Up left wingtip, down right! Nose down a little! Speed enough to go on!
With his heart in his mouth, looking swiftly down, Bob saw the earth seem to come up at him. Up elevators! Stall. He’d have to take it! He was close to earth, over turf. He must not keep that nose down and glide into the trees or taxi beyond the end of the turf.
The ship stalled, landed with quite a jar—but the trucks held up!
And Bob, from his heart, breathed a little prayer of thanksgiving.
He had done his best, had held his head, and—he was safe!