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Brooks had done enough atmospheric re-entries that it was no longer an exciting event.
At least biophysically; his heart rate did not appreciably raise as the shuttle streaked through the atmosphere, bleeding speed off into ionized air.
He still enjoyed the concept of the re-entry, but it was funny; there was no magic tech to make getting down easier or simpler than just crashing into the sky itself.
Space elevators took too long for his needs.
The banking of the shuttle ended, and a calm message came through the cabin;
“We have completed all our s-turns, folks. It’s mostly smooth from here – just five minutes until touchdown, and two more bumps for the touchdown and drag chute. If it’s your first time, remember that our descent will be steep – be sure to cover all drinks.”
Brooks chuckled as he saw a couple hurriedly putting the caps back on drinks they’d uncovered when the ship had stopped banking.
They appeared to be a couple, and the woman caught his eye. She looked nervous.
“It’s our first time,” she said, smiling nervously.
“It’s a bit alarming,” Brooks said. “But nothing to worry about. These shuttles are made atom-by-atom. The craftsmanship is literally flawless.”
The woman looked reassured, and the man next to her peered around.
“Have you done many of these?” he asked.
“Hundreds,” Brooks said.
“Oh, are you a spacejumper?” the woman asked, using the common nickname for shuttle pilots.
He did have a uniform on, though he’d taken off his insignia and branch color.
“No,” he told her. “I’m a Star Captain. But we land on a lot of worlds.”
“Really!” the woman said. “I bet that’s exciting.”
“It can be interesting,” he replied. “But we’re about to dip.”
An undignified ‘eep’ slipped from one of the two as the nose of the shuttle angled downwards.
The straps held them in place, but he saw their feet pushing against the floor.
The rest of the landing was uneventful. The pilot, Brooks thought, did a commendable job, and sent that note up to him. It was always worth the time to thank the people who served you.
“The local time in Antarctica is 12:31 AM. It is currently 1C in Davis, with an effective temperature of -7C. There is a 40 kph wind from the Northeast – balmy, by the local standards.”
After disembarking, he felt the cold wind bite into his skin. It wasn’t so cold, at the moment, that he needed special gear. But he would soon.
The snow crawler lot was on the edge of the city.
He’d been to Davis many times long ago, but all the buildings he saw now were new, built over the last few decades. Snow piled up between them, but was mostly let be.
People walked the streets, dressed casually. On a warm day like today, during the polar summer, all was pleasant.
The crawler lot looked more properly Antarctican. Snow was piled around the edges in mounds to help cut down the wind that otherwise blazed across the nearly featureless land.
“You must be Brooks,” a man said, coming out and offering a gloved hand.
Shaking his hand, Brooks nodded. “Do you have the equipment I ordered?”
“Right in here,” the man said. He glanced back at Brooks. “You been here before?”
“I was born here,” Brooks said.
“Oh, okay. You seemed like an out-of-towner. May I ask your destination?”
He’d sent that, but he knew the man was simply being concerned. Once he got deeper inland, onto the polar plateau, the winds would truly pick up. Speeds of 300 kph were not unheard of.
And these katabatic winds, roaring down from the heart of the continent could start up in a heartbeat.
The crawlers were specially built to stay upright even in the worst blow. But a person caught out alone would be in serious trouble. And in such winds, help would have severe difficulty arriving.
And when they did come, it would be to retrieve the body, not to rescue. One could easily die in five minutes when the cold stole your body heat.
“Visiting my home,” he said. “I’m from Perry.”
The man paused a moment, and nodded soberly. “You know how to handle yourself, then.”
Brooks said nothing, and the man brought him his cold-weather suit.
“I’ve keyed Crawler 31 to your system. It always brings me home.”
Giving the man a thankful nod, Brooks went in to put on the gear.
Carefully, he checked it over. It was fully cleaned, of course, and they maintained everything well. But he knew he always had to check his own gear; it was the only way to be sure, and it meant any faults were your own.
Every seam, every circuit, every seal. The face shield had no flaws, he found – even in a 300kph gust, a pebble would be unlikely to break a cracked visor, but he did not like to take the chance all the same.
When he felt entirely certain that the suit was in good shape, he dressed and went back outside.
Even without having its heaters on, he felt warm.
“You be careful out there,” the lot operator said as he got into his crawler. “Weather out near Perry is clear, but it’s still cold.”
“I know,” Brooks replied.
There was no warmth left in Perry.
Other Terrestrial 