The black land-cruiser was midway between the leaning, corroded atomizer and the ranked mirrors of a hydroponics farm when a stub-winged shuttle screamed close overhead. The driver braked with a jerk, awakening Pitcher.

They stared out the side-windows. There was no landing strip for tens of kilos; the pilot was ditching on a plain of ochre pumice.

“JDC,” said Cruiser Man as the craft plowed up a cloud of dust.

“Escape,” said Pitcher.

Cruiser Man said nothing more. But his thought was: Opportunity.

Donning respirators, they left the mosaic of too-often-repaired pavement for the immaculate, skin-shredding pumice. It crunched under Pitcher’s shoes. If he walked on it long enough, it would shred them, too.

The machine had landed close to them, almost as if seeking them. Pitcher felt residual heat radiating from the thrusters as they passed the tail. He spat out dust that was accumulating in his mouth. Cruiser Man opened the airlock’s outer door.

A shot cracked in the thin air of Juno.