The controller notices you, assesses your usefulness in an instant, and says, "Left sixteen point five degrees."

Mercifully, the brass ring around the wheel is demarcated. You crank the wheel, not even sure what you're doing, but the Specular seems to level out a bit and the wheel snaps into place. A controller gives you a brisk, satisfied nod. Then the Specular lurches again.

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The vessel starts to fall, and for a moment all you can see are flashes of silver and green; all you can hear are the calm voices of the remaining controllers. You're not even sure what you're falling through. Are you in the air, above a wild and verdant landscape? Or are you falling through time, the Specular's transit disastrously miscalculated? Again you see the crooked symbol, the ugly gray light, of that strange icon, then the noise and agony of impact overwhelm you.

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