You pays your money, you takes your chances. We had contingency plans for every possible outcome of the drop: what to do if we landed in water; if we landed upside down; if we couldn’t get the door open; if for some reason we came out of stasis too early and were damaged on impact. But the worst of all, really, was if we landed at night, because for that the contingency plan was simply to wait until morning.

My crash couch was swiveled to face the Sternberger’s curving outer wall. A glassteel window was built into it, giving a full 180-degree panorama. Everything outside was dark. Actually it wasn’t quite night: it just took my eyes a minute to adjust. More like twilight, really. Klicks must have been thinking the same thing, because he whistled the DOO-doo-DOO-doo signature from that old Rod Serling TV series.

"It’s almost sunrise," I said, unstrapping myself, the aluminum buckle opening with a clang. I rushed over to stand in front of the radio console and peered out of the center of our window.

"And the glass is half-full," replied Klicks, also getting to his feet.

"Huh?" I hated his little tests — cryptic phrases designed to see just how much on the ball you were.

He came over and stood near me. We both peered into the darkness. "You’re an optimist, Brandy. I think it’s just past sunset."

I pointed to my left. "That part of the window was facing east when the Sikorsky dropped us."

He shook his head. "Makes no difference. We could have corkscrewed as we fell, or bounced on impact."

"There’s one way to tell." I walked back to the straight rear wall of the habitat.