Tyra drew her SS1 in for a smooth landing, one half of a perfect, wide parabola. The sealed ship rumbled into the hot atmosphere. It was a speck interrupting the clear sky while it approached the runway, the only visible landmark for miles. The smoothed stone dipped up, exposing its rear to the ground; it was white with an array of black stars plastered across the tip, as if Tyra had run through a nursery of them on her way down. The ship's imaging showed Tyra a flat line in all directions, pink down and blue up. If you looked long enough at the horizon, you could see the gentle arc of the world, a saucer of land separating this side from that. Tyra only looked when landing.