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’
Locked
.
’
Kane
was
working
confidently
at
his
console
.
’
Descent
now
computer
monitored
.
’
A
crisp
,
loud
hum
filled
the
bridge
as
Mother
took
over
control
of
their
drop
,
regulating
the
last
metres
of
descent
with
more
precision
than
the
best
human
pilot
could
have
managed
.
’
Descending
on
landers
,
’
Kane
told
them
.
’
Kill
engines
.
’
Dallas
performed
a
final
prelanding
check
,
flipped
several
switches
to
OFF
.
’
Engines
off
.
Lifter
quads
functioning
properly
.
’
A
steady
throbbing
filled
the
bridge
.
’
Nine
hundred
metres
and
dropping
.
’
Ripley
watched
her
console
.
’
Eight
hundred
.
Seven
hundred
Six
.
’
She
continued
to
count
off
the
rate
of
descent
in
hundreds
of
metres
.
Before
long
she
was
reciting
it
in
tens
.
At
five
metres
the
tug
hesitated
,
hovering
on
its
landers
above
the
storm
-
wracked
,
night
-
shrouded
surface
.
’
Struts
down
.
’
Kane
was
already
moving
to
execute
the
required
action
as
Dallas
was
giving
the
order
.
A
faint
whine
filled
the
bridge
.
Several
thick
metal
legs
unfolded
beetle
-
like
from
the
ship
’
s
belly
,
drifted
tantalizingly
close
to
the
still
unseen
rock
below
them
.
’
Four
metres
.
.
ufff
!
’
Ripley
stopped
.
So
did
the
Nostromo
,
as
landing
struts
contacted
unyielding
rock
.
Massive
absorbers
cushioned
the
contact
.
’
We
’
re
down
.
’
