In the circular control room—horseshoe console in the middle—he went to the wall of glass and looked out at the ship, a large even though distant cylinder, charred around its jets. A blackish fluid still spilled from the jets onto the concrete. The second controller, big in the shoulders, a beret tight on his bald skull, put the tapes on rewind and, like an unblinking bird, regarded the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. He wore headphones, and in front of him was a bank of flickering monitors. "We managed," said the pilot. Pretending that he needed support to remove his heavy, double-buckled gloves, he leaned slightly against the jutting edge of the console. After that landing he was wobbly in the knees. "What was it?" The smaller one, by the glass, in a worn leather jacket, with a mousy, unshaven face, clapped his pockets until he found his cigarettes. "Deflection in the thrust," murmured the pilot, a little surprised by the coolness of the welcome.
