feed valve in number two thruster did not shut off when the unit failed to trip," said the console's happy voice. "We are losing reaction mass at the maximum rate of flow for that unit. We will be at approximately twenty-one thousand meters above the planetary surface when thrusters one and three shut off for lack of reaction mass."
"Blood and death," said Don Slade in open-eyed horror.
"Unless there is a failure in those unit controls also," the console added in a caveat which it might have programmed into itself during the past seconds.
"All right," said Slade. He rose from the pilot's seat in front of controls he did not understand and could not in any case have used as effectively as the console itself had done. "Run through recommended procedures for this emergency—and if you say there isn't one, I'll come through a bulkhead to find you!"
"Unlock and press the red lever on the underside of your right chair arm," the console said. "The chair will drop into the escape capsule. I will deploy the capsule when thrust ceases. I am broadcasting a Mayday, giving course and altitude particulars on five bands carrying local communications traffic. I am adding the information that the Terzia has asked that you be afforded aid."
Slade interlaced his fingers behind his neck and jerked back, cracking stiffness out of his shoulder muscles. Then he sat down again in front of the console. The short hop from Terzia had required three weeks of perceived time, because the boat's instruments were not powerful enough to lop off large chunks of Transit space. During that time, the console had gotten on Slade's nerves badly. Its cheerful voice had seemed to sneer at all his questions as at those of an ignoramus . . . as Slade indeed was, in the craft of space-faring.
But the machine's exposition