The Light of Other Days. Stephen Baxter
was looking down at the top of his own head, from a height of two or three metres. It wasn't a comfortable sight: he looked overweight, and there was a small bald spot at his crown he hadn't noticed before, a little pink coin in among his uncombed mass of hair.
He raised his hand to find the bald spot.
The image in the ‘Screen raised its hand too, like a puppet slaved to his actions. He waved, childishly, and looked up. But of course there was nothing to see, no sign of the tiny rip on spacetime which transmitted these images.
He tapped at the ‘Screen, and the viewpoint swivelled, looking straight ahead. Another tap, hesitantly, and it began to move forward, through the Wormworks’ dark halls: at first a little jerkily, then more smoothly. Huge machines, looming and rather sinister, floated past him like blocky clouds.
Eventually, he supposed, commercial versions of this wormhole camera would come with more intuitive controls, a joystick perhaps, levers and knobs to swivel the viewpoint this way and that. But this simple configuration of touch controls on his ‘Screen was enough to let him control the viewpoint, allowing him to concentrate on the image itself.
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