Mitchell soon had the small plane up in the air. He headed west, his VOR tuned to the Needles beacon in Havasu Lake National Wildlife Refuge from where he planned to fly up to Vegas. There was little in the way of landmarks to navigate by once he’d flown over Highway 93, so he had to rely on his VOR. He would have preferred to fly at a slightly higher altitude, but Jamie kept insisting that they fly low so that he could look at the scenery, even if it was just sand, rocks and the many-armed cacti which stood like guardsmen on parade.

“Hey, Dad, what’s that down there?” Jamie pointed down to the left.

Mitchell turned to look where his son was pointing but couldn’t see anything. “What is it, Jamie?” he asked.

“There’s someone down there. Cars in the desert, and some other stuff. Can we look?”

Mitchell squinted behind his sunglasses. The darkened lenses were prescription but lately he was finding they weren’t as good at correcting his long-distance vision as they used to be. He checked his fuel gauges and saw that he had plenty to spare. With the VOR equipment there was no chance of getting lost, and it was supposed to be a vacation. “I guess so, son,” he said, and put the Cessna into a slow, turning descent.

“Is this a good idea?” Sandra asked through his headset.

“We’ve plenty of time,” said Mitchell. “And we’re on a VFR flight plan, we can play around if we want.”

“There!” Jamie shouted. “I think they’re making a movie.” He switched his camcorder on and began filming out of the side window.

“What is it?” asked Sandra. She was sitting on the right-hand side of the plane and her husband was blocking her view.

“I can’t see,” said Mitchell, putting the Cessna into a steep turn so that the ground whirled underneath him. The altimeter span as he took the plane down to two thousand feet.

“There are two towers down there, the sort they put cameras on,” said Jamie excitedly. “I can’t see what they’re doing, though. I bet they’re making a movie. This is cool. I wonder who the director is?”

Mitchell peered out of the cockpit. Far below he could see a wood and metal structure, about fifty feet high. It looked like scaffolding, and he could make out a figure on top of it. Chains or ropes tethered the structure to the ground. About half a mile away were a group of men standing on the ground in a line. Mitchell frowned. The figures were standing too still, and there was something awkward about the way they held their arms. They weren’t cacti, but they weren’t human, either. He levelled the plane off and pointed out the figures to his wife.

“They look like robots,” she said.

“Or dummies,” he agreed.