The Fourth Law

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The moonless, star-swept night was ideal for flying. The pilot glanced at his gauges and could see that the horizon was in perfect alignment with the wings of the twinengine Cherokee. They were approaching the drop-zone in Palo Alto from an easterly heading, a distance of only twenty miles from his hangar in Half Moon Bay. On the left side of the fuselage, the great metropolis surrounding San Francisco Bay shone resplendent with millions of twinkling lights. Travis marveled at the industriousness of generations of Californians that played a role in creating this prosperity. From his vantage point, the city lights appeared like an enormous treasure chest, its burgeoning jewels shimmering in the night.

“Five minutes to the drop-zone,” the pilot said into his mic.

A brief moment followed. Travis Marlon began adjusting the aircraft’s controls so that the engine RPM slowed. He feathered the prop, reducing torque to the engine, the plane stabilizing at a slower speed to give the parachutists a safe departure from the fuselage. He heard two clicks of static in his headphones, indicating the jumpers had received his message, recognizing they were just minutes away from their target.

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