From the back cover: Stinson spun the chair around to face the captain. “That’s it,” he said. “The tanks are empty.” Brist nodded, her mouth dry. The deltaV readout on her station had already written that epitaph for her in its single glowing digit: zero. “What are our chances?” Stinson shrugged. “We’re coming in way too steep. The hull is rated to 4G; we’re going to pull six during re-entry. The heat shield is good to about 1500 degrees; we’re going to double that. “So, either the hull will break apart and kill us, or the heat shield will fail and kill us or the G forces will crush our hearts and kill us.” “You’re a real optimist,” Brist said. “Everything could hold together until we’re moving slowly enough to fire up the scoops and use the air as propellant for a landing.” Stinson shrugged again, turning back to his pilot’s station. “Me,” he said, “I’m hoping the heat shield fails first. A quick death from 2500 degree plasma is far preferable to the lingering pain of your heart bursting from 100 kilos of ribs pressing down on it.”