The covers of the forward cargo hatch had already opened like giant trap doors, and the camera platform was hovering above them, preparing to descend. Along this route, in the years to come, would travel thousands of passengers and tons of supplies. Only on rare occasions would the Queen drop down to sea level and dock with her floating base.

A sudden gust of cross-wind slapped Falcon’s cheek, and he tightened his grip on the guardrail. The Grand Canyon was a bad place for turbulence, though he did not expect much at this altitude. Without any real anxiety, he focused his attention on the descending platform, now about a hundred and fifty feet above the ship. He knew that the highly skilled operator who flying the remotely controlled vehicle had performed this simple maneuver a dozen times already, it was inconceivable that he would have difficulties, he seemed to be reacting rather sluggishly. That last gust had drifted the platform almost to the edge of the open hatchway. Surely the pilot would have corrected before this… Did he have a control problem? It was unlikely, these remotes had multiple-redundancy, fail-safe takeovers, any number of backup systems. Accidents were almost unheard of.

There he went again, off to the left. Could the pilot be drunk?

Improbable though that seemed, Falcon considered it seriously for a moment. Then he reached for his microphone switch.

Once again, without warning, he was slapped violently in the face. He barely felt it, for he was staring in horror at the camera platform. The operator was fighting for control, trying to balance the craft on its tail, but he was only making matters worse. The oscillations increased by degrees, forty, sixty, ninety…

“Switch to automatic, you fool!” Falcon shouted uselessly into his microphone. “Your manual control’s not working!”