Having seen enough cartoons in your day to know the dangers of being trapped at small size at the mercy of an automated assembly process, you angle the shoot toward the nearest door. Up on a walkway it leads away from the work area and hopefully out of the miasma of soot and sweat that pollutes its stale air.
Below, the wreck of your ship is being inspected by some curious wage slaves while their overseer, in slightly less stained overalls is bellowing in an indecipherable language at them. Even without your translator, however, you get the gist of it -- 'get back to WORK!!' Watching the ogres trudge off, and leave the bits of silver shrapnel you breathe a sigh of relief at their distraction. They all looked like stupid troglodytes to you (fit for Space Infantry even), but maybe one of them might have been smart enough to think to look up.
Leaving a thin smoke trail you guide your mortally wounded chute through the steel puzzle of rafters, loosing altitude as consistently as time. When you reach your destination you're cruising no higher than eye level, to these aliens anyway, a distance you estimate to be around 500 feet. 'Crap that makes me no bigger than a chunky bug.'
As you pass under the door frame increased light temporarily blinds you. Out in the shop there had been perhaps four flickering oil lamps. Here in what appeared to be an office, incandescent bulbs radiate with solar intensity. By the time you can glance around all you have time to notice is a titanic labyrinth of office dividers. Then the smell of burning plastic calls your full attention upward. "Shit!" The main tether had caught flame. When that went you'd have all the maneuverability of a maple leaf. You needed to look for a spot to unhook and fall unless you wanted to come down hot and obvious in front of these heirs of Hephestus.
Directly below you see a cramped office, though its dimensions are that of a city district to you. Dominating it is the hunched frame of a middle aged giantess. She works furiously, cigarette burning at the edge of her painted lips and coffee steaming beside her typewriter. The coffee would definitely save you and your suit could take the heat. Unfortunately, your fate after that would be uncertain at best. Then there was the woman's hair. Artificially swollen into something resembling earth's antiquated bee-hive hair cut, it would cushion your fall but it might also alert her to your presence. The only other choice would be to aim for the window and hope to God the chute holds.
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