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nothing outside . . . I’ve tried. My transmission comes back sounding like a meteor squeal. Of course our primary sensors are similarly curtailed. Electromagnetic options are severely limited and the radar range appears to be down to approximately one thousand miles.”
    “Confirm communication probe status?”
    “Both probes are serviceable, Commander, but, in the light of the radiation levels we are encountering, their shielding is insufficient – they wouldn’t last two minutes out there.”
    “Understood. Thank you, Rose.” Duval turned to look at a large and more remote console positioned on the other side of the bridge. It was manned by an officer who sat behind an array of flickering screens, including those of two, dated, box-type monitors that had been bolted in a make-shift way onto the deckhead above him. The man wore a faded blue denim shirt with a collar that was open by three buttons and he looked to be in his early fifties, but his weathered features, short greying hair and close-trimmed white beard spoke volumes about his experience. He studied the information presented to him seemingly unaware and certainly unperturbed by Duval’s stare. The green lights from the screens intermittently illuminated him in an eerie way. This was the veteran’s corner. “Engineering . . . ! Viktor! It’s your call,” continued the Commander.
    The man’s reply had a heavy European cadence. Having been on secondment to the ISSF from the Russian Space Agency for most of his career, Viktor Aprashin spoke impeccable English. He nodded reassuringly. “Nothing to stop us Commander; no restriction,” he said, and reached up to tap his fingers on one of the black plastic monitor casings for a few seconds as if to prompt some more data to appear. He grimaced at the results. “Maybe some minor issues with the boom protraxor and some of the outriggers are showing signs of thermal stress, but other than that it’s as good as it gets.” He looked up and met Duval’s gaze. “I say green for go!”
    Duval glanced at Mike Matheson and then back at Aprashin. “The Lander, Viktor, specifically the Lander?”
    “All the self-tests have come back green. She’s fuelled, the navigation system is initialised and the coordinates are downloaded and confirmed – same for the ascent vehicle. Zimmermann has already completed the pre-flight inspection. The Lander and the return module are fully serviceable, Commander. As far as I’m concerned, I say we go!” He sounded very definite.
    Duval turned back to Matheson and then he gestured to Drake. “You both ready? Fed and watered? Checked your hydration levels?”
    “We’re ready, Commander.”
    Duval suddenly raised his hand. “Wait one!” he barked, and turned to Alex. “You sure this is the lowest we can go?” He pointed. “From this display the descent time shows seven minutes longer than planned. That’s a lot of extra gamma rays for these guys?”
    “Commander, I can only reiterate,” replied Alex, with eyes widening in response to the cross-examination. “The surface is a mass of active volcanoes and some of the plumes are higher than we thought. The one you can see on the main screen in the south-western sector is higher than Mount Everest, and it’s throwing ash up almost forty thousand metres . . . a hundred and thirty thousand feet! I can’t risk a lower orbit than this . . . no way! This is as low as it is safe to go.”
    Duval looked him in the eye. He knew Alex always erred on the safe side, and he preferred that, but taking into account the return flight this was months, perhaps a year, off a man’s life. There was a thoughtful silence on the bridge.
    Alex turned and faced the two pilots; he knew the implications of the situation as well as anyone and his expression reflected his concern. “The safety of the ship and you two is prime.” He pulled his gaze back to Duval. “My lateral infrared imager is already skimming the outer corona,”