Lunar Descent by Allen Steele

close to six thousand miles per hour. “Pitchover one-sixty, roll zero, yaw zero,” the copilot murmured. “One-forty … one-ten …”
    â€œComing up on pericynthian,” Alli murmured offhandedly. “By the way, Les, there’s Hawking Station.”
    Lester craned his neck to peer over her shoulder. Farside was a darker-than-dark mass between them and the sun. He could see nothing … then, for a moment, he glimpsed the cruciform light which marked the unmanned lunar observatory. The long, dotted lines of the very-low-frequency radio telescope array spread out for fifty miles in compass-point directions from the semiautomatic observatory poised near the edge of Krasovsky Crater. “Yeah, I see it.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Alli said distantly. She was through playing tour guide; back to business. “Altitude fifty-five thousand feet.”
    â€œRoger that,” Ray said. “Pitchover one hundred forward, roll minus twenty, yaw ten. Compensating for drift. Coming up on nearside terminator. Get ready for powered descent burn, on my mark.” He paused. “I’m picking up LDSM’s signal, too,” he added with a smile. “Sounds like the Moondog McCloud show.”
    â€œMoondog McCloud?” Riddell asked.
    â€œThe jock on the lunar radio station.” Alli glanced over her shoulder. “You have been away a while, haven’t you?” She chuckled a little. “What’s he playing, Ray?”
    â€œChuck Berry.”
    â€œOooh! I love Chuck Berry. I’ll put it on the cabin speakers.” She touched the communications panel keypad, setting the volume low, and the opening riffs of “The Promised Land” squalled through the cabin.
    â€œGood tunes. Okay, Ray, ready for PDI on your mark.” Alli once again grasped the engine throttle. She let her left hand glide to the communications board and toggled a couple of switches without looking. “Descartes Traffic, this is Skycorp LTV oh-five-eleven, requesting clearance for primary approach, over.”
    â€œPitch ninety-four,” Ray continued. “Ninety-three, ninety-two, ninety-one … mark.” Alli moved the yoke forward again, the main engine fired again, braking their approach for landing. They could see only stars through the window; the lander was flying backwards now, its forward hull facing away from the lunar surface.
    Sunlight abruptly broke through the windows, casting long, quick-moving shadows across the cabin before the photosensitive filters kicked in and reduced the glare. Riddell checked the screen again; the simulations confirmed that the ship had passed over the terminator. They should be somewhere over the highlands region separating Smyth’s Sea and the Sea of Fertility by now, just south of the equator. He glanced at McGraw, who was cautiously beginning to raise her head. “Not yet, Tina,” he said quickly.
    McGraw caught a glimpse of what was going on, then hastily ducked her head again. “Oh boy,” she murmured. “Tell me when we’re off the roller coaster.”
    If either the pilot or co-pilot was aware that one of their passengers was on the verge of spacesickness just behind them, they were too busy to say anything about it now. “Good PDI burn,” Ray said, still staring ahead at a place only he could see. “Altitude fifty thousand feet, range one thousand eighty miles and closing.”
    â€œRoger that,” Alli said. She was listening to the tinny voices in her headset. “We copy, Descartes Traffic, thank you. Collins is go for primary approach, over.” She glanced at the computer screen. “Want to take us in, Ray?”
    â€œMy pleasure.” Ray raised his hands in front of him, touching invisible buttons in midair. Minute shudders ran across the hull as the moonship slowly moved into a vertical position, its RCR’s firing to correct its course. Through the windows, the