Cygna III rotates exactly once per minute.
He is standing on the observation panel, looking downward, looking at the stars millions of miles below. At 10:28:23, the Earth floats past. At 10:28:42, the sun is breifly full-on and overpowering, and the panel dims to compensate—a white circle surrounded by blackness passes beneath first one tennis shoe, then the other, then the stars reappear. At 10:29:23, the Earth floats past.
(An argrophobe’s nightmare. The universe whirls around beneath and the only thing that keeps you from falling into it is 20-inch plastic. The ground is close but beneath it is an infinite drop, no other solidity in a trillion trillion miles.)
He scuffs the surface, seeing if he can smudge it, though he knows he can’t.