I would rather the firestorms of atmosphere than this cruel descent of a thousand years of dreams, into the starkness of the capsule.
The two of our crew still lay suspended cool in their tombs of sleep, the nagging choirs of memory, the tubes and wires worming from their flesh to machinery, i would have to cut. Such midwifery is just one function of the leader here, floating in a sack of fluid dark in a clear sector of space.
One man stares from the trauma of his birth, attending to the hypnotics assuring him that this, was reality, however grim, our journey ends.
The landing itself was nothing, we touched upon a shelf of rock selected by the automind, and left a galaxy of dreams, behind (Robert Calvert 1st landing on medusa)
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