This was business. There were three gliders still in formation, heading in a wedge over midtown. Nine more were at a standstill fifteen to twenty feet over the roofs of nine major banks, each hovering under the power of a trio of small rotors on the points of the triangular kites. Waves of infra-sound beat downward from little plastic boxes on the pilots' legs. The one-man craft were masterpieces of simple design and fuel conservation. There was only one technician in the world with the talent and resources to design and build a squad of them. The pilots of the vehicles wore heavily padded outfits along with helmets that had a small monopole antenna over the left ear. Police helicopters—four of them—beat onto the scene with loudspeakers blasting. "Attention—land your craft on the roof of the nearest building—" The three pilots in the three gliders still soaring toward their respective destinations laughed. They were the Queen's clipper ships against the Spanish Armada. They rode stallions while the police chased on the backs of dinosaurs.
