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continue her free fall until she vaporized on hitting the atmosphere—if any—or exploded on ground impact, or else he could apply the auxiliary brake rockets and the landing retard, thus making a bid for survival.
    The period of tranquillity was over: he was in a state of chronic indecision.
    He was afraid in the very core of his being. He was afraid to make up his mind. He went uncertainly to the mess deck, seeking consolation and enlightenment in the  liqueur brandy. He did not find it.
    Eventually he was drawn back to the navigation deck as by a magnet. He climbed into the astrodome and regarded the green planet. It was expanding rapidly, almost visibly. With trembling fingers, Captain Mauris adjusted the manual telescope. He gazed through it at a startlingly close panorama of oceans, continents, and islands. He stared hypnotically for a while and felt the beads of cold moisture grow on his forehead.
    At last he came down and went to drink more brandy. It solved nothing, because he was still sober enough to face the choice.
    Suddenly he could stand it no more. He lurched unsteadily to the navigation deck, reached the control panel, and threw in three switches almost simultaneously. Reflex radar, altimeter, and positioning gyro were immediately synchronized with the auto-pilot. Whether the reversed instruments functioned correctly or not, Mauris neither knew nor cared. He had rid himself of an intolerable weight. He had made a decision.
    Immediately, he who had accepted so much responsibility in his career felt an overwhelming need to escape the responsibility of attempting to survive. He fled to the library and, forcing himself to try and forget the decision, placed a random microfilm in the book projector. It was  The Goldert Ass of Apuleius.
    He looked at the words, and they had no meaning for him. He was too busy awaiting the shock of the first automatic blast of the auxiliary brake rockets.
    After an eternity of hours that seemed years, he felt a sharp surge as the motors produced a field of double gravity, piling on the ship’s own synthetic 1/3 G force.
    Mauris fell sideways from his chair and lay on the bulkhead, groaning heavily. The rocket burst lasted five seconds, and he felt crushed by its relentless force. Abruptly, it ended. He slithered painfully to the deck.
    Then the old habits reasserted themselves. The Master’s place in a powerful maneuver was on the navigation deck. Captain Mauris picked hims elf up and made his way forward.
    The second automatic power maneuver hit him before he could reach a contour berth. A field of 5 G slammed him against the bulkhead of the navigation deck. He had  fallen sideways about ten feet. He lay there spreadeagled, unconscious.
    The auto-pilot had positioned the ship accurately. The ship’s attitude, controlled by the gyromanipulator, had brought the green planet dead astern, and with rockets blazing, the Santa Maria dropped backward to that rapidly expanding surface. On the screens of the external visulators, the silvery shapes of mountains and hills, of rivers and forests leaped into a growing reality. The fleecy shapes of clouds passed like fantastic birds.
    But Captain Mauris lay inert against the bulkhead, the accelerating G force crushing his unconscious body to the hard metal.
    He awoke with every muscle aching from the tremendous stress of ordinary physical deceleration, but he awoke with a sensation of profound peace.
    He picked himself up and climbed into the astrodome. The stars were no longer sharp, unwinking points against a backcloth of jet. They twinkled, dancing to the whim of atmosphere.
    Looking down, Captain Mauris felt his heart thump violently. The Santa Maria had made a perfect automatic landing on what appeared, in the semidarkness, to be smooth grassland. A few yards away, he thought he saw dimly the ripple of running water.
    The United Space Corporation had laid down a cautious and definitive procedure for