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...
although what I could have done about it in ca. ten seconds I do not know.
Instead of using fractional jets paired in couples to control attitude, a Volvo
uses gyros and processes against them- cheaper than twelve small jets and a mess
of plumbing. But slower.
Then, all at once, the clock matched the zero time, the jet cut in, shoving
us into the cushions, and the screen displayed the program of bums-the topmost
being: 21-06-17.0- -19 seconds 21-06-36.0
Sweet as could be, the jet cut off after nineteen seconds without even
clearing its throat. "See?" said Gwen. "You just have to be firm with it."
"I don't believe in animism."
"You don't? How do you cope with- Sorry, dear. Never mind; Gwen will take
care of such things."
Captain Midnight made no answer. You couldn't truthfully say that I sulked.
But, damn it all, animism is sheer superstition. (Except about weapons.)
I had shifted to channel thirteen and we were just coming up on the fifth
bum. I was getting ready to turn control over to HKL GCL (Captain Hives) when
that dear little electronic idiot crashed its RAM-its Random Access Memory on
which was written our descent program. The table of bums on the screen dimmed,
quivered, shrank to a dot and disappeared. Frantically I punched the reset
key-nothing happened.
Captain Midnight, undaunted as usual, knew just what to do
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