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"How does it read?"
"We're as near dead in the water as can be done that way, I think. And I
wouldn't fiddle with it; look at that fuel reading."
I looked and didn't like it. "All right, I don't blast at all until we are
mighty close." We steadied in the heads-up attitude-nothing but sky in front of
us. Over my left shoulder I could see the ground at about a forty-five-degree
angle. By looking past Gwen I could see it out the starboard side, too, but at
quite a distance-a bad angle, useless. "Gwen, how long is this buggy?"
"I've never seen one out of a nest. Does it matter?"
"It matters a hell of a lot when I'm judging how far to the ground by
looking past my shoulder."
"Oh. I thought you meant exactly. Call it thirty meters. One minute, sir."
I was about to give it a short blast when Bill blasted. So the poor devil
was space sick but at that instant I wished him dead. His dinner passed between
our heads and struck the forward viewport, there spread itself. "Bill!" I
screamed. "Stop that!"
(Don't bother to tell me that I made an unreasonable demand.)
Bill did the best he could. He trained his head to the left and deposited
his second volley on the left viewport-leaving me flying blind.
I tried. With my eyes on the radar altimeter I gave it a quick blast-and
lost that, too. I'm sure that someday they will solve the problem of accurate
low-scale readings taken through jet blast and fouled by "grass" from terrain-I
was just bom too soon, that's all
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