'I don't want to shoot her ' Craig was beginning again, and then his arm slipped upward as the girl bucked against him, socking her behind into his crotch. Bethany immediately sank her teeth into his wrist. 'Ow!' Craig screamed. 'owww!' His grip loosened. Bethany ducked under it. Albert leaped forward, raising the violin case, as Toomy pointed the gun at Bethany. Toomy's face was screwed into a grimace of pain and anger. 'No, Albert!' Nick bawled. Craig Toomy saw Albert coming and shifted the muzzle toward him. For one moment Albert looked straight into it, and it was like none of his dreams or fantasies. Looking into the muzzle was like looking into an open grave. I might have made a mistake here, he thought, and then Craig pulled the trigger. 5 Instead of an explosion there was a small pop  the sound of an old Daisy air rifle, no more. Albert felt something thump against the chest of his Hard Rock Cafe teeshirt, had time to realize he had been shot, and then he brought the violin case down on Craig's head. There was a solid thud which ran all the way up his arms and the indignant voice of his father suddenly spoke up in his mind What's the matter with you, Albert? That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument! There was a startled broink! from inside the case as the violin jumped. One of the brass latches dug into Toomy's forehead and blood splashed outward in an amazing spray. Then the man's knees came unhinged and he went down in front of Albert like an express elevator. Albert saw his eyes roll up to whites, and then Craig Toomy was lying at his feet, unconscious. A crazy but somehow wonderful thought filled Albert's mind for a moment By God, I never played better in my life! And then he realized that he was no longer able to get his breath. He turned to the others, the corners of his mouth turning up in a thinlipped, slightly confused smile. 'I think I have been plugged,' Ace Kaussner said, and then the world bleached out to shades of gray and his own knees came unhinged. He crumpled to the floor on top of his violin case. 6 He was out for less than thirty seconds. When he came around, Brian was slapping his cheeks lightly and looking anxious. Bethany was on her knees beside him, looking at Albert with shining myhero eyes. Behind her, Dinah Bellman was still crying within the circle of Laurel's arms. Albert looked back at Bethany and felt his heart  apparently still whole  expand in his chest. 'The Arizona Jew rides again,' he muttered. 'What, Albert?' she asked, and stroked his cheek. Her hand was wonderfully soft, wonderfully cool. Albert decided he was in love. 'Nothing,' he said, and then the pilot whacked him across the face again. 'Are you all right, kid?' Brian was asking. 'Are you all right?' 'I think so,' Albert said. 'Stop doing that, okay? And the name is Albert. Ace, to my friends. How bad am I hit? I can't feel anything yet. Were you able to stop the bleeding?' Nick Hopewell squatted beside Bethany. His face wore a bemused, unbelieving smile. 'I think you'll live, matey. I never saw anything like that in my life ... and I've seen a lot. You Americans are too foolish not to love. Hold out your hand and I'll give you a souvenir.' Albert held out a hand which shook uncontrollably with reaction, and Nick dropped something into it. Albert held it up to his eyes and saw it was a bullet. 'I picked it up off the floor,' Nick said. 'Not even misshapen. It must have hit you square in the chest  there's a little powder mark on your shirt  and then bounced off. It was a misfire. God must like you, mate.' 'I was thinking of the matches,' Albert said weakly. 'I sort of thought it wouldn't fire at all.' 'That was very brave and very foolish, my boy,' Bob Jenkins said. His face was dead white and he looked as if he might pass out himself in another few moments. 'Never believe a writer. Listen to them, by all means, but never believe them. My God, what if I'd been wrong?' 'You almost were,' Brian said. He helped Albert to his feet. 'It was like when you lit the other matches  the ones from the bowl. There was just enough pop to drive the bullet out of the muzzle. A little more pop and Albert would have had a bullet in his lung.' Another wave of dizziness washed over Albert. He swayed on his feet, and Bethany immediately slipped an arm around his waist. 'I thought it was really brave,' she said, looking up at him with eyes which suggested she believed Albert Kaussner must shit diamonds from a platinum asshole. 'I mean incredible.' 'Thanks,' Ace said, smiling coolly (if a trifle woozily). 'It wasn't much.' The fastest Hebrew west of the Mississippi was aware that there was a great deal of girl pressed tightly against him, and that the girl smelled almost unbearably good. Suddenly he felt good. In fact, he believed he had never felt better in his life. Then he remembered his violin, bent down, and picked up the case. There was a deep dent in one side, and one of the catches had been sprung. There was blood and hair on it, and Albert felt his stomach turn over lazily. He opened the case and looked in. The instrument looked all right, and he let out a little sigh. Then he thought of Craig Toomy, and alarm replaced relief. 'Say, I didn't kill that guy, did I? I hit him pretty hard.' He looked towards Craig, who was lying near the restaurant door with Don Gaffney kneeling beside him. Albert suddenly felt like passing out again. There was a great deal of blood on Craig's face and forehead. 'He's alive,' Don said, 'but he's out like a light.' Albert, who had blown away more hardcases than The Man with No Name in his dreams, felt his gorge rise. 'Jesus, there's so much blood!' 'Doesn't mean a thing,' Nick said. 'Scalp wounds tend to bleed a lot.' He joined Don, picked up Craig's wrist, and felt for a pulse. 'You want to remember he had a gun to that girl's head, matey. If he'd pulled the trigger at pointblank range, he might well have done for her. Remember the actor who killed himself with a blank round a few years ago? Mr Toomy brought this on himself; he owns it completely. Don't take on.' Nick dropped Craig's wrist and stood up. 'Besides,' he said, pulling a large swatch of paper napkins from the dispenser on one of the tables, 'his pulse is strong and regular. I think he'll wake up in a few minutes with nothing but a bad headache. I also think it might be prudent to take a few precautions against that happy event. Mr Gaffney, the tables in yonder watering hole actually appear to be equipped with tablecloths  strange but true. I wonder if you'd get a couple? We might be wise to bind old Mr I'veGottoGettoBoston's hands behind him.' 'Do you really have to do that?' Laurel asked quietly. 'The man is unconscious, after all, and bleeding.' Nick pressed his makeshift napkin compress against Craig Toomy's headwound and looked up at her. 'You're Laurel, right?' 'Right.' 'Well, Laurel, let's not paint it fine. This man is a lunatic. I don't know if our current adventure did that to him or if he just growed that way, like Topsy, but I do know he's dangerous. He would have grabbed Dinah instead of Bethany if she had been closer. If we leave him untied, he might do just that next time.' Craig groaned and waved his hands feebly. Bob Jenkins stepped away from him the moment he began to move, even though the revolver was now safely tucked into the waistband of Brian Engle's pants, and Laurel did the same, pulling Dinah with her. 'Is anybody dead?' Dinah asked nervously. 'No one is, are they?' 'No, honey.' 'I should have heard him sooner, but I was listening to the man who sounds like a teacher.' 'It's okay,' Laurel said. 'It turned out all right, Dinah.' Then she looked out at the empty terminal and her own words mocked her. Nothing was all right here. Nothing at all. Don returned with a redandwhitechecked tablecloth in each fist. 'Marvellous,' Nick said. He took one of them and spun it quickly and expertly into a rope. He put the center of it in his mouth, clamping his teeth on it to keep it from unwinding, and used his hands to flip Craig over like a human omelette. Craig cried out and his eyelids fluttered. 'Do you have to be so rough?' Laurel asked sharply. Nick gazed at her for a moment, and she dropped her eyes at once. She could not help comparing Nick Hopewell's eyes with the eyes in the pictures which Darren Crosby had sent her. Widely spaced, clear eyes in a goodlooking  if unremarkable  face. But the eyes had also been rather unremarkable, hadn't they? And didn't Darren's eyes have something, perhaps even a great deal, to do with why she had made this trip in the first place? Hadn't she decided, after a great deal of close study, that they were the eyes of a man who would behave himself? A man who would back off if you told him to back off? She had boarded Flight 29 telling herself that this was her great adventure, her one extravagant tango with romance  an impulsive transcontinental dash into the arms of the tall, dark stranger. But sometimes you found yourself in one of those tiresome situations where the truth could no longer be avoided, and Laurel reckoned the truth to be this she had chosen Darren Crosby because his pictures and letters had told her he wasn't much different from the placid boys and men she had been dating ever since she was fifteen or so, boys and men who would learn quickly to wipe their feet on the mat before they came in on rainy nights, boys and men who would grab a towel and help with the dishes without being asked, boys and men who would let you go if you told them to do it in a sharp enough tone of voice. Would she have been on Flight 29 tonight if the photos had shown Nick Hopewell's darkblue eyes instead of Darren's mild brown ones? She didn't think so. She thought she would have written him a kind but rather impersonal note Thank you for your reply and your picture, Mr Hopewell, but I somehow don't think we would be right for each other  and gone on looking for a man like Darren. And, of course, she doubted very much if men like Mr Hopewell even read the lonelyhearts magazines, let alone placed ads in their personals columns. All the same, she was here with him now, in this weird situation. Well, she had wanted to have an adventure, just one adventure, before middleage settled in for keeps. Wasn't that true? Yes. And here she was, proving Tolkien right  she had stepped out of her own door last evening, just the same as always, and look where she had ended up a strange and dreary version of Fantasyland. But it was an adventure, all right. Emergency landings ... deserted airports ... a lunatic with a gun. Of course it was an adventure. Something she had read years ago suddenly popped into Laurel's mind. Be careful what you pray for, because you just might get it. How true. And how confusing. There was no confusion in Nick Hopewell's eyes ... but there was no mercy in them, either. They made Laurel feel shivery, and there was nothing romantic in the feeling. Are you sure? a voice whispered, and Laurel shut it up at once. Nick pulled Craig's hands out from under him, then brought his wrists together at the small of his back. Craig groaned again, louder this time, and began to struggle weakly. 'Easy now, my good old mate,' Nick said soothingly. He wrapped the tablecloth rope twice around Craig's lower forearms and knotted it tightly. Craig's elbows flapped and he uttered a strange weak scream. 'There!' Nick said, standing up. 'Trussed as neatly as Father John's Christmas turkey. We've even got a spare if that one looks like not holding.' He sat on the edge of one of the tables and looked at Bob Jenkins. 'Now, what were you saying when we were so rudely interrupted?' Bob looked at him, dazed and unbelieving. 'What?' 'Go on,' Nick said. He might have been an interested lecturegoer instead of a man sitting on a table in a deserted airport restaurant with his feet planted beside a bound man lying in a pool of his own blood. 'You had just got to the part about Flight 29 being like the Mary Celeste. Interesting concept, that.' 'And you want me to . . . to just go on?' Bob asked incredulously. 'As if nothing had happened?' 'Let me up!' Craig shouted. His words were slightly muffled by the tough industrial carpet on the restaurant floor, but he still sounded remarkably lively for a man who had been coldcocked with a violin case not five minutes previous. 'Let me up right now! I demand that you ' Then Nick did something that shocked all of them, even those who had seen the Englishman twist Craig's nose like the handle of a bathtub faucet. He drove a short, hard kick into Craig's ribs. He pulled it at the last instant ... but not much. Craig uttered a pained grunt and shut up. 'Start again, mate, and I'll stave them in,' Nick said grimly. 'My patience with you has run out.' 'Hey!' Gaffney cried, bewildered. 'What did you do that f ' 'Listen to me!' Nick said, and looked around. His urbane surface was entirely gone for the first time; his voice vibrated with anger and urgency. 'You need waking up, fellows and girls, and I haven't the time to do it gently. That little girl Dinah  says we are in bad trouble here, and I believe her. She says she hears something, something which may be coming our way, and I rather believe that, too. I don't hear a bloody thing, but my nerves are jumping like grease on a hot griddle, and I'm used to paying attention when they do that. I think something is coming, and I don't believe it's going to try and sell us vacuumcleaner attachments or the latest insurance scheme when it gets here. Now we can make all the correct civilized noises over this bloody madman or we can try to understand what has happened to us. Understanding may not save our lives, but I'm rapidly becoming convinced that the lack of it may end them, and soon.' His eyes shifted to Dinah. 'Tell me I'm wrong if you believe I am, Dinah. I'll listen to you, and gladly.' 'I don't want you to hurt Mr Toomy, but I don't think you're wrong, either,' Dinah said in a small, wavery voice. 'All right,' Nick said. 'Fair enough. I'll try my very best not to hurt him again ... but I make no promises. Let's begin with a very simple concept. This fellow I've trussed up ' 'Toomy,' Brian said. 'His name is Craig Toomy.' 'All right. Mr Toomy is mad. Perhaps if we find our way back to our proper place, or if we find the place where all the people have gone, we can get some help for him. But for now, we can only help him by putting him out of commission  which I have done, with the generous if foolhardy assistance of Albert there  and getting back to our current business. Does anyone hold a view which runs counter to this?' There was no reply. The other passengers who had been aboard Flight 29 looked at Nick uneasily. 'All right,' Nick said. 'Please go on, Mr Jenkins.' 'I ... I'm not used to . . .' Bob made a visible effort to collect himself. 'In books, I suppose I've killed enough people to fill every seat in the plane that brought us here, but what just happened is the first act of violence I've ever personally witnessed. I'm sorry if I've ... er ... behaved badly.' 'I think you're doing great, Mr Jenkins,' Dinah said. 'And I like listening to you, too. It makes me feel better.' Bob looked at her gratefully and smiled. 'Thank you, Dinah.' He stuffed his hands in his pockets, cast a troubled glance at Craig Toomy, then looked beyond them, across the empty waiting room. 'I think I mentioned a central fallacy in our thinking,' he said at last. 'It is this we all assumed, when we began to grasp the dimensions of this Event, that something had happened to the rest of the world. That assumption is easy enough to understand, since we are all fine and everyone else  including those other passengers with whom we boarded at Los Angeles International  seems to have disappeared. But the evidence before us doesn't bear the assumption out. What has happened has happened to us and us alone. I am convinced that the world as we have always known it is ticking along just as it always has. 'It's us  the missing passengers and the eleven survivors of Flight 29  who are lost.' 7 'Maybe I'm dumb, but I don't understand what you're getting at,' Rudy Warwick said after a moment. 'Neither do I,' Laurel added. 'We've mentioned two famous disappearances,' Bob said quietly. Now even Craig Toomy seemed to be listening ... he had stopped struggling, at any rate. 'One, the case of the Mary Celeste, took place at sea. The second, the case of Roanoke Island, took place near the sea. They are not the only ones, either. I can think of at least two others which involved aircraft the disappearance of the aviatrix Amelia Earhart over the Pacific Ocean, and the disappearance of several Navy planes over that part of the Atlantic known as the Bermuda Triangle. That happened in 1945 or 1946, I believe. There was some sort of garbled transmission from the lead aircraft's pilot, and rescue planes were sent out at once from an airbase in Florida, but no trace of the planes or their crews was ever found.' 'I've heard of the case,' Nick said. 'It's the basis for the Triangle's infamous reputation, I think.' 'No, there have been lots of ships and planes lost there,' Albert put in. 'I read the book about it by Charles Berlitz. Really interesting.' He glanced around. 'I just never thought I'd be in it, if you know what I mean.' Jenkins said, 'I don't know if an aircraft has ever disappeared over the continental United States before, but ' 'It's happened lots of times with small planes,' Brian said, 'and once, about thirtyfive years ago, it happened with a commercial passenger plane. There were over a hundred people aboard. 1955 or '56, this was. The carrier was either TWA or Monarch, I can't remember which. The plane was bound for Denver out of San Francisco. The pilot made radio contact with the Reno tower  absolutely routine  and the plane was never heard from again. There was a search, of course, but ... nothing.' Brian saw they were all looking at him with a species of dreadful fascination, and he laughed uncomfortably. 'Pilot ghost stories,' he said with a note of apology in his voice. 'It sounds like a caption for a Gary Larson cartoon.' 'I'll bet they all went through,' the writer muttered. He had begun to scrub the side of his face with his hand again. He looked distressed  almost horrified. 'Unless they found bodies . . . ?' 'Please tell us what you know, or what you think you know,' Laurel said. 'The effect of this . . . this thing . . . seems to pile up on a person. If I don't get some answers soon, I think you can tie me up and put me down next to Mr Toomy.' 'Don't flatter yourself,' Craig said, speaking clearly if rather obscurely. Bob favored him with another uncomfortable glance and then appeared to muster his thoughts. 'There's no mess here, but there's a mess on the plane. There's no electricity here, but there's electricity on the plane. That isn't conclusive, of course  the plane has its own selfcontained power supply, while the electricity here comes from a power plant somewhere. But then consider the matches. Bethany was on the plane, and her matches work fine. The matches I took from the bowl in here wouldn't strike. The gun which Mr Toomy took  from the Security office, I imagine  barely fired. I think that, if you tried a batterypowered flashlight, you'd find that wouldn't work, either. Or, if it did work, it wouldn't work for long.' 'You're right,' Nick said. 'And we don't need to find a flashlight in order to test your theory.' He pointed upward. There was an emergency light mounted on the wall behind the kitchen grill. It was as dead as the overhead lights. 'That's batterypowered,' Nick went on. 'A lightsensitive solenoid turns it on when the power fails. It's dim enough in here for that thing to have gone into operation, but it didn't do so. Which means that either the solenoid's circuit failed or the battery is dead.' 'I suspect it's both,' Bob Jenkins said. He walked slowly toward the restaurant door and looked out. 'We find ourselves in a world which appears to be whole and in reasonably good order, but it is also a world which seems almost exhausted. The carbonated drinks are flat. The food is tasteless. The air is odorless. We still give off scents  I can smell Laurel's perfume and the captain's aftershave lotion, for instance  but everything else seems to have lost its smell.' Albert picked up one of the glasses with beer in it and sniffed deeply. There was a smell, he decided, but it was very, very faint. A flowerpetal pressed for many years between the pages of a book might give off the same distant memory of scent. 'The same is true for sounds,' Bob went on. 'They are flat, onedimensional, utterly without resonance.' Laurel thought of the listless clupclup sound of her high heels on the cement, and the lack of echo when Captain Engle cupped his hands around his mouth and called up the escalator for Mr Toomy. 'Albert, could I ask you to play something on your violin?' Bob asked. Albert glanced at Bethany. She smiled and nodded. 'All right. Sure. In fact, I'm sort of curious about how it sounds after . He glanced at Craig Toomy. 'You know.' He opened the case, grimacing as his fingers touched the latch which had opened the wound in Craig Toomy's forehead, and drew out his violin. He caressed it briefly, then took the bow in his right hand and tucked the violin under his chin. He stood like that for a moment, thinking. What was the proper sort of music for this strange new world where no phones rang and no dogs barked? Ralph Vaughan Williams? Stravinsky? Mozart? Dvorak, perhaps? No. None of them were right. Then inspiration struck, and he began to play 'Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah.' Halfway through the tune the bow faltered to a stop. 'I guess you must have hurt your fiddle after all when you bopped that guy with it,' Don Gaffney said. 'It sounds like it's stuffed full of cotton batting.' 'No,' Albert said slowly. 'My violin is perfectly okay. I can tell just by the way it feels, and the action of the strings under my fingers ... but there's something else as well. Come on over here, Mr Gaffney.' Gaffney came over and stood beside Albert. 'Now get as close to my violin as you can. No . . not that close; I'd put out your eye with the bow. There. Just right. Listen again.' Albert began to play, singing along in his mind, as he almost always did when he played this corny but endlessly cheerful shitkicking music Singing feefifiddlyIoh, FeefifiddlyIohohohoh, FeefifiddlyIoh, Strummin' on the old banjo. 'Did you hear the difference?' he asked when he had finished. 'It sounds a lot better close up, if that's what you mean,' Gaffney said. He was looking at Albert with real respect. 'You play good, kid.' Albert smiled at Gaffney, but it was really Bethany Simms he was talking to. 'Sometimes, when I'm sure my music teacher isn't around, I play old Led Zeppelin songs,' he said. 'That stuff really cooks on the violin. You'd be surprised.' He looked at Bob. 'Anyway, it fits right in with what you were saying. The closer you get, the better the violin sounds. It's the air that's wrong, not the instrument. It's not conducting the sounds the way it should, and so what comes out sounds the way the beer tasted.' 'Flat,' Brian said. Albert nodded. 'Thank you, Albert,' Bob said. 'Sure. Can I put it away now?' 'Of course.' Bob continued as Albert replaced his violin in its case, and then used a napkin to clean off the fouled latches and his own fingers. 'Taste and sound are not the only offkey elements of the situation in which we find ourselves. Take the clouds, for instance.' 'What about them?' Rudy Warwick asked. 'They haven't moved since we arrived, and I don't think they're going to move. I think the weather patterns we're all used to living with have either stopped or are running down like an old pocketwatch.' Bob paused for a moment. He suddenly looked old and helpless and frightened. 'As Mr Hopewell would say, let's not draw it fine. Everything here feels wrong. Dinah, whose senses  including that odd, vague one we call the sixth sense  are more developed than ours, has perhaps felt it the most strongly, but I think we've all felt it to some degree. Things here are just wrong. 'And now we come to the very hub of the matter.' He turned to face them. 'I said not fifteen minutes ago that it felt like lunchtime. It now feels much later than that to me. Three in the afternoon, perhaps four. It isn't breakfast my stomach is grumbling for right now; it wants high tea. I have a terrible feeling that it may start to get dark outside before our watches tell us it's quarter to ten in the morning.' 'Get to it, mate,' Nick said. 'I think it's about time,' Bob said quietly. 'Not about dimension, as Albert suggested, but time. Suppose that, every now and then, a hole appears in the time stream? Not a timewarp, but a timerip. A rip in the temporal fabric.' 'That's the craziest shit I ever heard!' Don Gaffney exclaimed. 'Amen!' Craig Toomy seconded from the floor. 'No,' Bob replied sharply. 'If you want crazy shit, think about how Albert's violin sounded when you were standing six feet away from it. Or look around you, Mr Gaffney. just look around you. What's happening to us ... what we're in . . . that's crazy shit.' Don frowned and stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. 'Go on,' Brian said. 'All right. I'm not saying that I've got this right; I'm just offering a hypothesis that fits the situation in which we have found ourselves. Let us say that such rips in the fabric of time appear every now and then, but mostly over unpopulated areas  by which I mean the ocean, of course. I can't say why that would be, but it's still a logical assumption to make, since that's where most of these disappearances seem to occur.' 'Weather patterns over water are almost always different from weather patterns over large landmasses,' Brian said. 'That could be it.' Bob nodded. 'Right or wrong, it's a good way to think of it, because it puts it in a context we're all familiar with. This could be similar to rare weather phenomena which are sometimes reported upsidedown tornadoes, circular rainbows, daytime starlight. These timerips may appear and disappear at random, or they may move, the way fronts and pressure systems move, but they very rarely appear over land. 'But a statistician will tell you that sooner or later whatever can happen will happen, so let us say that last night one did appear over land ... and we had the bad luck to fly into it. And we know something else. Some unknown rule or property of this fabulous meteorological freak makes it impossible for any living being to travel through unless he or she is fast asleep.' 'Aw, this is a fairy tale,' Gaffney said. 'I agree completely,' Craig said from the floor. 'Shut your cakehole,' Gaffney growled at him. Craig blinked, then lifted his upper lip in a feeble sneer. 'It feels right,' Bethany said in a low voice. 'It feels as if we're out of step with ... with everything.' 'What happened to the crew and the passengers?' Albert asked. He sounded sick. 'If the plane came through, and we came through, what happened to the rest of them?' His imagination provided him with an answer in the form of a sudden indelible image hundreds of people failing out of the sky, ties and trousers rippling, dresses skating up to reveal garterbelts and underwear, shoes falling off, pens (the ones which weren't back on the plane, that was) shooting out of pockets; people waving their arms and legs and trying to scream in the thin air; people who had left wallets, purses, pocketchange, and, in at least one case, a pacemaker implant, behind. He saw them hitting the ground like dud bombs, squashing bushes flat, kicking up small clouds of stony dust, imprinting the desert floor with the shapes of their bodies. 'My guess is that they were vaporized,' Bob said. 'Utterly discorporated.' Dinah didn't understand at first; then she thought of Aunt Vicky's purse with the traveller's checks still inside and began to cry softly. Laurel crossed her arms over the little blind girl's shoulders and hugged her. Albert, meanwhile, was fervently thanking God that his mother had changed her mind at the last moment, deciding not to accompany him east after all. 'In many cases their things went with them,' the writer went on. 'Those who left wallets and purses may have had them out at the time of The ... The Event. It's hard to say, though. What was taken and what was left behind  I suppose I'm thinking of the wig more than anything else  doesn't seem to have a lot of rhyme or reason to it.' 'You got that right,' Albert said. 'The surgical pins, for instance. I doubt if the guy they belonged to took them out of his shoulder or knee to play with because he got bored.' 'I agree,' Rudy Warwick said. 'It was too early in the flight to get that bored.' Bethany looked at him, startled, then burst out laughing. 'I'm originally from Kansas,' Bob said, 'and the element of caprice makes me think of the twisters we used to sometimes get in the summer. They'd totally obliterate a farmhouse and leave the privy standing, or they'd rip away a barn without pulling so much as a shingle from the silo standing right next to it.' 'Get to the bottom line, mate,' Nick said. 'Whatever time it is we're in, I can't help feeling that it's very late in the day.' Brian thought of Craig Toomy, Old Mr I'veGottoGettoBoston, standing at the head of the emergency slide and screaming Time is short! Time is very fucking short! 'All right,' Bob said. 'The bottom line. Let's suppose there are such things as timerips, and we've gone through one. I think we've gone into the past and discovered the unlovely truth of timetravel you can't appear in the Texas Book Depository on November 22, 1963, and put a stop to the Kennedy assassination; you can't watch the building of the pyramids or the sack of Rome; you can't investigate the Age of the Dinosaurs at first hand.' He raised his arms, hands outstretched, as if to encompass the whole silent world in which they found themselves. 'Take a good look around you, fellow timetravellers. This is the past. It is empty; it is silent. It is a world  perhaps a universe  with all the sense and meaning of a discarded paintcan. I believe we may have hopped an absurdly short distance in time, perhaps as little as fifteen minutes ... at least initially. But the world is clearly unwinding around us. Sensory input is disappearing. Electricity has already disappeared. The weather is what the weather was when we made the jump into the past. But it seems to me that as the world winds down, time itself is winding up in a kind of spiral crowding in on itself.' 'Couldn't this be the future?' Albert asked cautiously. Bob Jenkins shrugged. He suddenly looked very tired. 'I don't know for sure, of course  how could I?  but I don't think so. This place we're in feels old and stupid and feeble and meaningless. It feels I don't know . Dinah spoke then. They all looked toward her. 'It feels over,' she said softly. 'Yes,' Bob said. 'Thank you, dear. That's the word I was looking for.' 'Mr Jenkins?' 'Yes?' 'The sound I told you about before? I can hear it again.' She paused. 'It's getting closer.' 8 They all fell silent, their faces long and listening. Brian thought he heard something, then decided it was the sound of his own heart. Or simply imagination. 'I want to go out by the windows again,' Nick said abruptly. He stepped over Craig's prone body without so much as a glance down and strode from the restaurant without another word. 'Hey!' Bethany cried. 'Hey, I want to come, too!' Albert followed her; most of the others trailed after. 'What about you two?' Brian asked Laurel and Dinah. 'I don't want to go,' Dinah said. 'I can hear it as well as I want to from here.


' She paused and added 'But I'm going to hear it better, I think, if we don't get out of here soon.' Brian glanced at Laurel Stevenson. 'I'll stay here with Dinah,' she said quietly. 'All right,' Brian said. 'Keep away from Mr Toomy.' "'Keep away from Mr Toomy."' Craig mimicked savagely from his place on the floor. He turned his head with an effort and rolled his eyes in their sockets to look at Brian. 'You really can't get away with this, Captain Engle. I don't know what game you and your Limey friend think you're playing, but you can't get away with it. Your next piloting job will probably be running cocaine in from Colombia after dark. At least you won't be lying when you tell your friends all about what a crack pilot you are.' Brian started to reply, then thought better of it. Nick said this man was at least temporarily insane, and Brian thought Nick was right. Trying to reason with a madman was both useless and timeconsuming. 'We'll keep our distance, don't worry,' Laurel said. She drew Dinah over to one of the small tables and sat down with her. 'And we'll be fine.' 'All right,' Brian said. 'Yell if he starts trying to get loose.' Laurel smiled wanly. 'You can count on it.' Brian bent, checked the tablecloth with which Nick had bound Craig's hands, then walked across the waiting room to join the others, who were standing in a line at the floortoceiling windows. 9 He began to hear it before he was halfway across the waiting room, and by the time he had joined the others, it was impossible to believe it was an auditory hallucination. That girl's hearing is really remarkable, Brian thought. The sound was very faint  to him, at least  but it was there, and it did seem to be coming from the east. Dinah had said it sounded like Rice Krispies after you poured milk over it. To Brian it sounded more like radio static  the exceptionally rough static you got sometimes during periods of high sunspot activity. He agreed with Dinah about one thing, though; it sounded bad. He could feel the hairs on the nape of his neck stiffening in response to that sound. He looked at the others and saw identical expressions of frightened dismay on every face. Nick was controlling himself the best ' and the young girl who had almost balked at using the slide  Bethany  looked the most deeply scared, but they all heard the same thing in the sound. Bad. Something bad on the way. Hurrying. Nick turned toward him. 'What do you make of it, Brian? Any ideas?' 'No,' Brian said. 'Not even a little one. All I know is that it's the only sound in town.' 'It's not in town yet,' Don said, 'but it's going to be, I think. I only wish I knew how long it was going to take.' They were quiet again, listening to the steady hissing crackle from the east. And Brian thought I almost know the sound, I think. Not cereal in milk, not radio static, but ... what? If only it wasn't so faint ... But he didn't want to know. He suddenly realized that, and very strongly. He didn't want to know at all. The sound filled him with a bonedeep loathing. 'We do have to get out of here!' Bethany said. Her voice was loud and wavery. Albert put an arm around her waist and she gripped his hand in both of hers. Gripped it with panicky tightness. 'We have to get out of here right now!' 'Yes,' Bob Jenkins said. 'She's right. That sound  I don't know what it is, but it's awful. We have to get out of here.' They were all looking at Brian and he thought, It looks like I'm the captain again. But not for long. Because they didn't understand. Not even Jenkins understood, sharp as some of his other deductions might have been, that they weren't going anywhere. Whatever was making that sound was on its way, and it didn't matter, because they would still be here when it arrived. There was no way out of that. He understood the reason why it was so, even if none of the others did ... and Brian Engle suddenly understood how an animal caught in a trap must feel as it hears the steady thud of the hunter's approaching boots. CHAPTER 6 Stranded. Bethany's Matches. TwoWay Traffic Ahead. Albert's Experiment. Nightfall. The Dark and the Blade. 1 Brian turned to look at the writer. 'You say we have to get out of here, right?' 'Yes. I think we must do that just as soon as we possibly ' 'And where do you suggest we go? Atlantic City? Miami Beach? Club Med?' 'You are suggesting, Captain Engle, that there's no place we can go. I think  I hope  that you're wrong about that. I have an idea.' 'Which is?' 'In a moment. First, answer one question for me. Can you refuel the airplane? Can you do that even if there's no power?' 'I think so, yes. Let's say that, with the help of a few ablebodied men, I could. Then what?' 'Then we take off again,' Bob said. Little beads of sweat stood out on his deeply lined face. They looked like droplets of clear oil. 'That sound  that crunchy sound  is coming from the east. The timerip was several thousand miles west of here. If we retraced our original course ... could you do that?' 'Yes,' Brian said. He had left the auxiliary power units running, and that meant the INS computer's program was still intact. That program was an exact log of the trip they had just made, from the moment Flight 29 had left the ground in southern California until the moment it had set down in central Maine. One touch of a button would instruct the computer to simply reverse that course; the touch of another button, once in the air, would put the autopilot to work flying it. The Teledyne inertial navigation system would recreate the trip down to the smallest degree deviations. 'I could do that, but why?' 'Because the rip may still be there. Don't you see? We might be able to fly back through it.' Nick looked at Bob in sudden startled concentration, then turned to Brian. 'He might have something there, mate. He just might.' Albert Kaussner's mind was diverted onto an irrelevant but fascinating sidetrack if the rip were still there, and if Flight 29 had been on a frequently used altitude and heading  a kind of eastwest avenue in the sky  then perhaps other planes had gone through it between 107 this morning and now (whenever now was). Perhaps there were other planes landing or landed at other deserted American airports, other crews and passengers wandering around, stunned ... No, he thought. We happened to have a pilot on board. What are the chances of that happening twice? He thought of what Mr Jenkins had said about Ted Williams's sixteen consecutive onbases and shivered. 'He might or he might not,' Brian said. 'It doesn't really matter, because we're not going anyplace in that plane.' 'Why not?' Rudy asked. 'If you could refuel it, I don't see . 'Remember the matches? The ones from the bowl in the restaurant? The ones that wouldn't light?' Rudy looked blank, but an expression of huge dismay dawned on Bob Jenkins's face. He put his hand to his forehead and took a step backwards. He actually seemed to shrink before them. 'What?' Don asked. He was looking at Brian from beneath drawntogether brows. It was a look which conveyed both confusion and suspicion. 'What does that have to ' But Nick knew. 'Don't you see?' he asked quietly. 'Don't you see, mate? If batteries don't work, if matches don't light ' 'then jetfuel won't burn,' Brian finished. 'It will be as used up and worn out as everything else in this world.' He looked at each one of them in turn. 'I might as well fill up the fuel tanks with molasses.' 2 'Have either of you fine ladies ever heard of the langoliers?' Craig asked suddenly. His tone was light, almost vivacious. Laurel jumped and looked nervously toward the others, who were still standing by the windows and talking. Dinah only turned toward Craig's voice, apparently not surprised at all. 'No,' she said calmly. 'What are those?' 'Don't talk to him, Dinah,' Laurel whispered. 'I heard that,' Craig said in the same pleasant tone of voice. 'Dinah's not the only one with sharp ears, you know.' Laurel felt her face grow warm. 'I wouldn't hurt the child, anyway,' Craig went on. 'No more than I would have hurt that girl. I'm just frightened. Aren't you?' 'Yes,' Laurel snapped, 'but I don't take hostages and then try to shoot teenage boys when I'm frightened.' 'You didn't have what looked like the whole front line of the Los Angeles Rams caving in on you at once,' Craig said. 'And that English fellow . . .' He laughed. The sound of his laughter in this quiet place was disturbingly merry, disturbingly normal. 'Well, all I can say is that if you think I'm crazy, you haven't been watching him at all. That man's got a chainsaw for a mind.' Laurel didn't know what to say. She knew it hadn't been the way Craig Toomy was presenting it, but when he spoke it seemed as though it should have been that way ... and what he said about the Englishman was too close to the truth. The man's eyes . . . and the kick he had chopped into Mr Toomy's ribs after he had been tied up ... Laurel shivered. 'What are the langoliers, Mr Toomy?' Dinah asked. 'Well, I always used to think they were just makebelieve,' Craig said in that same goodhumored voice. 'Now I'm beginning to wonder ... because I hear it, too, young lady. Yes I do.' 'The sound?' Dinah asked softly. 'That sound is the langoliers?' Laurel put one hand on Dinah's shoulder. 'I really wish you wouldn't talk to him anymore, honey. He makes me nervous.' 'Why? He's tied up, isn't he?' 'Yes, but ' 'And you could always call for the others, couldn't you?' 'Well, I think ' 'I want to know about the langoliers.' With some effort, Craig turned his head to look at them ... and now Laurel felt some of the charm and force of personality which had kept Craig firmly on the fast track as he worked out the highpressure script his parents had written for him. She felt this even though he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind him and his own blood drying on his forehead and left cheek. 'My father said the langoliers were little creatures that lived in closets and sewers and other dark places.' 'Like elves?' Dinah wanted to know. Craig laughed and shook his head. 'Nothing so pleasant, I'm afraid. He said that all they really were was hair and teeth and fast little legs  their little legs were fast, he said, so they could catch up with bad boys and girls no matter how quickly they scampered.' 'Stop it,' Laurel said coldly. 'You're scaring the child.' 'No, he's not,' Dinah said. 'I know makebelieve when I hear it. It's interesting, that's all.' Her face said it was something more than interesting, however. She was intent, fascinated. 'It is, isn't it?' Craig said, apparently pleased by her interest. 'I think what Laurel means is that I'm scaring her. Do I win the cigar, Laurel? If so, I'd like an El Producto, please. None of those cheap White Owls for me.' He laughed again. Laurel didn't reply, and after a moment Craig resumed. 'My dad said there were thousands of langoliers. He said there had to be, because there were millions of bad boys and girls scampering about the world. That's how he always put it. My father never saw a child run in his entire life. They always scampered. I think he liked that word because it implies senseless, directionless, nonproductive motion. But the langoliers ... they run. They have purpose. In fact, you could say that the langoliers are purpose personified.' 'What did the kids do that was so bad?' Dinah asked. 'What did they do that was so bad the langoliers had to run after them?' 'You know, I'm glad you asked that question,' Craig said. 'Because when my father said someone was bad, Dinah, what he meant was lazy. A lazy person couldn't be part of THE BIG PICTURE. No way. In my house, you were either part of THE BIG PICTURE or you were LYING DOWN ON THE JOB, and that was the worst kind of bad you could be. Throatcutting was a venial sin compared to LYING DOWN ON THE JOB. He said that if you weren't part of THE BIG PICTURE, the langoliers would come and take you out of the picture completely. He said you'd be in your bed one night and then you'd hear them coming ... crunching and smacking their way toward you ... and even if you tried to scamper off, they'd get you. Because of their fast little ' 'That's enough,' Laurel said. Her voice was flat and dry. 'The sound is out there, though,' Craig said. His eyes regarded her brightly, almost roguishly. 'You can't deny that. The sound really is out th ' 'Stop it or I'll hit you with something myself.' 'Okay,' Craig said. He rolled over on his back, grimaced, and then rolled further, onto his other side and away from them. 'A man gets tired of being hit when he's down and hogtied.' Laurel's face grew not just warm but hot this time. She bit her lip and said nothing. She felt like crying. How was she supposed to handle someone like this? How? First the man seemed as crazy as a bedbug, and then he seemed as sane as could be. And meanwhile, the whole world  Mr Toomy's BIG PICTURE  had gone to hell. 'I bet you were scared of your dad, weren't you, Mr Toomy?' Craig looked back over his shoulder at Dinah, startled. He smiled again, but this smile was different. It was a rueful, hurt smile with no public relations in it. 'This time you win the cigar, miss,' he said. 'I was terrified of him.' 'Is he dead?' 'Yes.' 'Was he LYING DOWN ON THE JOB? Did the langoliers get him?' Craig thought for a long time. He remembered being told that his father had had his heart attack while in his office. When his secretary buzzed him for his ten o'clock staff meeting and there was no answer, she had come in to find him dead on the carpet, eyes bulging, foam drying on his mouth. Did someone tell you that? he wondered suddenly. That his eyes were bugging out, that there was foam on his mouth? Did someone actually tell you that  Mother, perhaps, when she was drunk  or was it just wishful thinking? 'Mr Toomy? Did they?' 'Yes,' Craig said thoughtfully. 'I guess he was, and I guess they did.' 'Mr Toomy?' 'What?' 'I'm not the way you see me. I'm not ugly. None of us are.' He looked at her, startled. 'How would you know how you look to me, little blind miss?' 'You might be surprised,' Dinah said. Laurel turned toward her, suddenly more uneasy than ever ... but of course there was nothing to see. Dinah's dark glasses defeated curiosity. 3 The other passengers stood on the far side of the waiting room, listening to that low rattling sound and saying nothing. It seemed there was nothing left to say. 'What do we do now?' Don asked. He seemed to have wilted inside his red lumberjack's shirt. Albert thought the shirt itself had lost some of its cheerfully macho vibrancy. 'I don't know,' Brian said. He felt a horrible impotence toiling away in his belly. He looked out at the plane, which had been his plane for a little while, and was struck by its clean lines and smooth beauty. The Delta 727 sitting to its left at the jetway looked like a dowdy matron by comparison. It looks good to you because it's never going to fly again, that's all. It's like glimpsing a beautiful woman for just a moment in the back seat of a limousine  she looks even more beautiful than she really is because you know she's not yours, can never be yours. 'How much fuel is left, Brian?' Nick asked suddenly. 'Maybe the burnrate isn't the same over here. Maybe there's more than you realize.' 'All the gauges are in applepie working order,' Brian said. 'When we landed, I had less than 600 pounds. To get back to where this happened, we'd need at least 50,000.' Bethany took out her cigarettes and offered the pack to Bob. He shook his head. She stuck one in her mouth, took out her matches, and struck one. It didn't light. 'Ohoh,' she said. Albert glanced over. She struck the match again ... and again . . . and again. There was nothing. She looked at him, frightened. 'Here,' Albert said. 'Let me.' He took the matches from her hand and tore another one loose. He struck it across the strip on the back. There was nothing. 'Whatever it is, it seems to be catching,' Rudy Warwick observed. Bethany burst into tears, and Bob offered her his handkerchief. 'Wait a minute,' Albert said, and struck the match again. This time it lit ... but the flame was low, guttering, unenthusiastic. He applied it to the quivering tip of Bethany's cigarette and a clear image suddenly filled his mind a sign he had passed as he rode his tenspeed to Pasadena High School every day for the last three years. CAUTION, this sign said. TWOWAY TRAFFIC AHEAD. What in the hell does that mean? He didn't know ... at least not yet. All he knew for sure was that some idea wanted out but was, at least for the time being, stuck in the gears. Albert shook the match out. It didn't take much shaking. Bethany drew on her cigarette, then grimaced. 'Blick! It tastes like a Carlton, or something.' 'Blow smoke in my face,' Albert said. 'What?' 'You heard me. Blow some in my face.' She did as he asked. and Albert sniffed at the smoke. Its former sweet fragrance was now muted. Whatever it is, it seems to be catching CAUTION TWOWAY TRAFFIC AHEAD. 'I'm going back to the restaurant,' Nick said. He looked depressed. 'Yon Cassius has a lean and slippery feel. I don't like leaving him with the ladies for too long.' Brian started after him and the others followed. Albert thought there was something a little amusing about these tidal flows  they were behaving like cows which sense thunder in the air. 'Come on,' Bethany said. 'Let's go.' She dropped her halfsmoked cigarette into an ashtray and used Bob's handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Then she took Albert's hand. They were halfway across the waiting room and Albert was looking at the back of Mr Gaffney's red shirt when it struck him again. more forcibly this time TWOWAY TRAFFIC AHEAD. 'Wait a minute!' he yelled. He suddenly slipped an arm around Bethany's waist, pulled her to him, put his face into the hollow of her throat, and breathed in deeply. 'Oh my! We hardly know each other!' Bethany cried. Then she began to giggle helplessly and put her arms around Albert's neck. Albert, a boy whose natural shyness usually disappeared only in his daydreams, paid no notice. He took another deep breath through his nose. The smells of her hair, sweat, and perfume were still there, but were faint; very faint. They all looked around, but Albert had already let Bethany go and was hurrying back to the windows. 'Wow!' Bethany said. She was still giggling a little, and blushing brightly. 'Strange dude!' Albert looked at Flight 29 and saw what Brian had noticed a few minutes earlier it was clean and smooth and almost impossibly white. It seemed to vibrate in the dull stillness outside. Suddenly the idea came up for him. It seemed to burst behind his eyes like a firework. The central concept was a bright, burning ball; implications radiated out from it like fiery spangles and for a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe. 'Albert?' Bob asked. 'Albert, what's wro' 'Captain Engle!' Albert screamed. In the restaurant, Laurel sat bolt upright and Dinah clasped her arm with hands like talons. Craig Toomy craned his neck to look. 'Captain Engle, come here!' 4 Outside, the sound was louder. To Brian it was the sound of radio static. Nick Hopewell thought it sounded like a strong wind rattling dry tropical grasses. Albert, who had worked at McDonald's the summer before, was reminded of the sound of french fries in a deepfat fryer, and to Bob Jenkins it was the sound of paper being crumpled in a distant room. The four of them crawled through the hanging rubber strips and then stepped down into the luggageunloading area, listening to the sound of what Craig Toomy called the langoliers. 'How much closer is it?' Brian asked Nick. 'Can't tell. It sounds closer, but of course we were inside before.' 'Come on,' Albert said impatiently. 'How do we get back aboard? Climb the slide?' 'Won't be necessary,' Brian said, and pointed. A rolling stairway stood on the far side of Gate 2. They walked toward it, their shoes clopping listlessly on the concrete. 'You know what a long shot this is, don't you, Albert?' Brian asked as they walked. 'Yes, but' 'Long shots are better than no shots at all,' Nick finished for him. 'I just don't want him to be too disappointed if it doesn't pan out.' 'Don't worry,' Bob said softly. 'I will be disappointed enough for all of us. The lad's idea makes good logical sense. It should prove out ... although, Albert, you do realize there may be factors here which we haven't discovered, don't you?' 'Yes.' They reached the rolling ladder, and Brian kicked up the footbrakes on the wheels. Nick took a position on the grip which jutted from the left railing, and Brian laid hold of the one on the right. 'I hope it still rolls,' Brian said. 'It should,' Bob Jenkins answered. 'Some  perhaps even most  of the ordinary physical and chemical components of life seem to remain in operation; our bodies are able to process the air, doors open and close.' 'Don't forget gravity,' Albert put in. 'The earth still sucks.' 'Let's quit talking about it and just try it,' Nick said. The stairway rolled easily. The two men trundled it across the tarmac toward the 767 with Albert and Bob walking behind them. One of the wheels squeaked rhythmically. The only other sound was that low, constant crunchrattlecrunch from somewhere over the eastern horizon. 'Look at it,' Albert said as they neared the 767. 'Just look at it. Can't you see? Can't you see how much more there it is than anything else?' There was no need to answer, and no one did. They could all see it. And reluctantly, almost against his will, Brian began to think the kid might have something. They set the stairway at an angle between the escape slide and the fuselage of the plane, with the top step only a long stride away from the open door. 'I'll go first,' Brian said. 'After I pull the slide in, Nick, you and Albert roll the stairs into better position.' 'Ayeaye, Captain,' Nick said, and clipped off a smart little salute, the knuckles of his first and second fingers touching his forehead. Brian snorted. 'Junior attache,' he said, and then ran fleetly up the stairs. A few moments later he had used the escape slide's lanyard to pull it back inside. Then he leaned out to watch as Nick and Albert carefully maneuvered the rolling staircase into position with its top step just below the 767's forward entrance. 5 Rudy Warwick and Don Gaffney were now babysitting Craig. Bethany, Dinah, and Laurel were lined up at the waitingroom windows, looking out. 'What are they doing?' Dinah asked. 'They've taken away the slide and put a stairway by the door,' Laurel said. 'Now they're going up.' She looked at Bethany. 'You're sure you don't know what they're up to?' Bethany shook her head. 'All I know is that Ace  Albert, I mean  almost went nuts. I'd like to think it was this mad sexual attraction, but I don't think it was.' She paused, smiled, and added 'At least, not yet. He said something about the plane being more there. And my perfume being less there, which probably wouldn't please Coco Chanel or whatever her name is. And twoway traffic. I didn't get it. He was really jabbering.' 'I bet I know,' Dinah said. 'What's your guess, hon?' Dinah only shook her head. 'I just hope they hurry up. Because poor Mr Toomy is right. The langoliers are coming.' 'Dinah, that's just something his father made up.' 'Maybe once it was makebelieve,' Dinah said, turning her sightless eyes back to the windows, 'but not anymore.' 6 'All right, Ace,' Nick said. 'On with the show.' Albert's heart was thudding and his hands shook as he set the four elements of his experiment out on the shelf in first class, where, a thousand years ago and on the other side of the continent, a woman named Melanie Trevor had supervised a carton of orange juice and two bottles of champagne. Brian watched closely as Albert put down a book of matches, a bottle of Budweiser, a can of Pepsi, and a peanutbutterandjelly sandwich from the restaurant coldcase. The sandwich had been scaled in plastic wrap. 'Okay,' Albert said, and took a deep breath. 'Let's see what we got here.' 7 Don left the restaurant and walked over to the windows. 'What's happening?' 'We don't know,' Bethany said. She had managed to coax a flame from another of her matches and was smoking again. When she removed the cigarette from her mouth, Laurel saw she had torn off the filter. 'They went inside the plane; they're still inside the plane; end of story.' Don gazed out for several seconds. 'It looks different outside. I can't say just why, but it does.' 'The light's going,' Dinah said. 'That's what's different.' Her voice was calm enough, but her small face was an imprint of loneliness and fear. 'I can feel it going.' 'She's right,' Laurel agreed. 'It's only been daylight for two or three hours, but it's already getting dark again.' 'I keep thinking this is a dream, you know,' Don said. 'I keep thinking it's the worst nightmare I ever had but I'll wake up soon.' Laurel nodded. 'How is Mr Toomy?' Don laughed without much humor. 'You won't believe it.' 'Won't believe what?' Bethany asked. 'He's gone to sleep.' 8 Craig Toomy, of course, was not sleeping. People who fell asleep at critical moments, like that fellow who was supposed to have been keeping an eye out while Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, were most definitely not part of THE BIG PICTURE. He had watched the two men carefully through eyes which were riot quite shut and willed one or both of them to go away. Eventually the one in the red shirt did go away. Warwick, the bald man with the big false teeth, walked over to Craig and bent down. Craig let his eyes close all the way. 'Hey,' Warwick said. 'Hey, you 'wake?' Craig lay still, eyes closed, breathing regularly. He considered manufacturing a small snore and thought better of it. Warwick poked him in the side. Craig kept his eyes shut and went on breathing regularly. Baldy straightened up, stepped over him, and went to the restaurant door to watch the others. Craig cracked his eyelids and made sure Warwick's back was turned. Then, very quietly and very carefully, he began to work his wrists up and down inside the tight figureeight of cloth which bound them. The tablecloth rope felt looser already. He moved his wrists in short strokes, watching Warwick's back, ready to cease movement and close his eyes again the instant Warwick showed signs of turning around. He willed Warwick not to turn around. He wanted to be free before the assholes came back from the plane. Especially the English asshole, the one who had hurt his nose and then kicked him while he was down. The English asshole had tied him up pretty well; thank God it was only a tablecloth instead of a length of nylon line. Then he would have been out of luck, but as it was one of the knots loosened, and now Craig began to rotate his wrists from side to side. He could hear the langoliers approaching. He intended to be out of here and on his way to Boston before they arrived. In Boston he would be safe. When you were in a boardroom filled with bankers, no scampering was allowed. And God help anyone  man, woman or child  who tried to get in his way. 9 Albert picked up the book of matches he had taken from the bowl in the restaurant. 'Exhibit A,' he said. 'Here goes.' He tore a match from the book and struck it. His unsteady hands betrayed him and he struck the match a full two inches above the rough strip which ran along the bottom of the paper folder. The match bent. 'Shit!' Albert cried. 'Would you like me to ' Bob began. 'Let him alone,' Brian said. 'It's Albert's show.' 'Steady on, Albert,' Nick said. Albert tore another match from the book, offered them a sickly smile, and struck it. The match didn't light. He struck it again. The match didn't light. 'I guess that does it,' Brian said. 'There's nothing ' 'I smelled it,' Nick said. 'I smelled the sulphur! Try another one, Ace!' Instead, Albert snapped the same match across the rough strip a third time ... and this time it flared alight. It did not just burn the flammable head and then gutter out; it stood up in the familiar little teardrop shape, blue at its base, yellow at its tip, and began to burn the paper stick. Albert looked up, a wild grin on his face. 'You see?' he said. 'You see?' He shook the match out, dropped it, and pulled another. This one lit on the first strike. He bent back the cover of the matchbook and touched the lit flame to the other matches, just as Bob Jenkins had done in the restaurant. This time they all flared alight with a dry fsss! sound. Albert blew them out like a birthday candle. It took two puffs of air to do the job. 'You see?' he asked. 'You see what it means? Twoway traffic! We brought our own time with us! There's the past out there ... and everywhere, I guess, east of the hole we came through ... but the present is still in here! Still caught inside this airplane!' 'I don't know,' Brian said, but suddenly everything seemed possible again. He felt a wild, almost unrestrainable urge to pull Albert into his arms and pound him on the back. 'Bravo, Albert!' Bob said. 'The beer! Try the beer!' Albert spun the cap off the beer while Nick fished an unbroken glass from the wreckage around the drinks trolley. 'Where's the smoke?' Brian asked. 'Smoke?' Bob asked, puzzled. 'Well, I guess it's not smoke, exactly, but when you open a beer there's usually something that looks like smoke around the mouth of the bottle.' Albert sniffed, then tipped the beer toward Brian. 'Smell.' Brian did, and began to grin. He couldn't help it. 'By God, it sure smells like beer, smoke or no smoke.' Nick held out the glass, and Albert was pleased to see that the Englishman's hand was not quite steady, either. 'Pour it,' he said. 'Hurry up, mate  my sawbones says suspense is bad for the old ticker.' Albert poured the beer and their smiles faded. The beer was flat. Utterly flat. It simply sat in the whiskey glass Nick had found, looking like a urine sample. 10 'Christ almighty, it's getting dark!' The people standing at the windows looked around as Rudy Warwick joined them. 'You're supposed to be watching the nut,' Don said. Rudy gestured impatiently. 'He's out like a light. I think that whack on the head rattled his furniture a little more than we thought at first. What's going on out there? And why is it getting dark so fast?' 'We don't know,' Bethany said. 'It just is. Do you think that weird dude is going into a coma, or something like that?' 'I don't know,' Rudy said. 'But if he is. we won't have to worry about him anymore, will we? Christ, is that sound creepy! It sounds like a bunch of cokedup termites in a balsawood glider.' For the first time, Rudy seemed to have forgotten his stomach. Dinah looked up at Laurel. 'I think we better check on Mr Toomy,' she said. 'I'm worried about him. I bet he's scared.' 'If he's unconscious, Dinah, there isn't anything we can ' 'I don't think he's unconscious,' Dinah said quietly. 'I don't think he's even asleep.' Laurel looked down at the child thoughtfully for a moment and then took her hand. 'All right,' she said. 'Let's have a look.' 11 The knot Nick Hopewell had tied against Craig's right wrist finally loosened enough for him to pull his hand free. He used it to push down the loop holding his left hand. He got quickly to his feet. A bolt of pain shot through his head, and for a moment he swayed. Flocks of black dots chased across his field of vision and then slowly cleared away. He became aware that the terminal was being swallowed in gloom. Premature night was falling. He could hear the chewcrunchchew sound of the langoliers much more clearly now, perhaps because his ears had become attuned to them, perhaps because they were closer. On the far side of the terminal he saw two silhouettes, one tall and one short, break away from the others and start back toward the restaurant. The woman with the bitchy voice and the little blind girl with the ugly, pouty face.


He couldn't let them raise the alarm. That would be very bad. Craig backed away from the bloody patch of carpet where he had been lying, never taking his eyes from the approaching figures. He could not get over how rapidly the light was failing. There were pots of eating utensils set into a counter to the left of the cash register, but it was all plastic crap, no good to him. Craig ducked around the cash register and saw something better a butcher knife lying on the counter next to the grill. He took it and crouched behind the cash register to watch them approach. He watched the little girl with a particular anxious interest. The little girl knew a lot ... too much, maybe. The question was, where had she come by her knowledge? That was a very interesting question indeed. Wasn't it? 12 Nick looked from Albert to Bob. 'So,' he said. 'The matches work but the lager doesn't.' He turned to set the glass of beer on the counter. 'What does that mea ' All at once a small mushroom cloud of bubbles burst from nowhere in the bottom of the glass. They rose rapidly, spread, and burst into a thin head at the top. Nick's eyes widened. 'Apparently,' Bob said dryly, 'it takes a moment or two for things to catch up.' He took the glass, drank it off, and smacked his lips. 'Excellent,' he said. They all looked at the complicated lace of white foam on the inside of the glass. 'I can say without doubt that it's the best glass of beer I ever drank in my life.' Albert poured more beer into the glass. This time it came out foaming; the head overspilled the rim and ran down the outside. Brian picked it up. 'Are you sure you want to do that, matey?' Nick asked, grinning. 'Don't you fellows like to say "twentyfour hours from bottle to throttle"?' 'In cases of timetravel, the rule is suspended,' Brian said. 'You could look it up.' He tilted the glass, drank, then laughed out loud. 'You're right,' he said to Bob. 'It's the best goddam beer there ever was. Try the Pepsi, Albert.' Albert opened the can and they all heard the familiar pophisss of carbonation, mainstay of a hundred softdrink commercials. He took a deep drink. When he lowered the can he was grinning ... but there were tears in his eyes. 'Gentlemen, the PepsiCola is also very good today,' he said in a plummy headwaiter's tones, and they all began to laugh. 13 Don Gaffney caught up with Laurel and Dinah just as they entered the restaurant. 'I thought I'd better ' he began, and then stopped. He looked around. 'Oh, shit. Where is he?' 'I don't ' Laurel began, and then, from beside her, Dinah Bellman said, 'Be quiet.' Her head turned slowly, like the lamp of a dead searchlight. For a moment there was no sound at all in the restaurant ... at least no sound Laurel could hear. 'There,' Dinah said at last, and pointed toward the cash register. 'He's hiding over there. Behind something.' 'How do you know that?' Don asked in a dry, nervous voice. 'I don't hear ' 'I do,' Dinah said calmly. 'I hear his fingernails on metal. And I hear his heart. It's beating very fast and very hard. He's scared to death. I feel so sorry for him.' She suddenly disengaged her hand from Laurel's and stepped forward. 'Dinah, no!' Laurel screamed. Dinah took no notice. She walked toward the cash register, arms out, fingers seeking possible obstacles. The shadows seemed to reach for her and enfold her. 'Mr Toomy? Please come out. We don't want to hurt you. Please don't be afraid ' A sound began to rise from behind the cash register. It was a high, keening scream. It was a word, or something which was trying to be a word, but there was no sanity in it. 'Youuuuuuuuuuu' Craig arose from his hiding place, eyes blazing, butcher knife upraised, suddenly understanding that it was her, she was one of them, behind those dark glasses she was one of them, she was not only a langolier but the head langolier, the one who was calling the others, calling them with her dead blind eyes. 'Youuuuuuuuuuu' He rushed at her, shrieking. Don Gaffney shoved Laurel out of his way, almost knocking her to the floor, and leaped forward. He was fast, but not fast enough. Craig Toomy was crazy, and he moved with the speed of a langolier himself. He approached Dinah at a deadout run. No scampering for him. Dinah made no effort to draw away. She looked up from her darkness and into his, and now she held her arms out, as if to enfold him and comfort him. 'Yoooouuuuuuuu ' 'It's all right, Mr Toomy,' she said. 'Don't be afr 'And then Craig buried the butcher knife in her chest and ran past Laurel into the terminal, still shrieking. Dinah stood where she was for a moment. Her hands found the wooden handle jutting out of the front of her dress and her fingers fluttered over it, exploring it. Then she sank slowly, gracefully, to the floor, becoming just another shadow in the growing darkness. CHAPTER 7 Dinah in the Valley of the Shadow. The Fastest Toaster East of the Mississippi. Racing Against Time. Nick Makes a Decision. 1 Albert, Brian, Bob, and Nick passed the peanutbutterandjelly sandwich around. They each got two bites and then it was gone . . . but while it lasted, Albert thought he had never sunk his teeth into such wonderful chow in his life. His belly awakened and immediately began clamoring for more. 'I think our bald friend Mr Warwick is going to like this part best,' Nick said, swallowing. He looked at Albert. 'You're a genius, Ace. You know that, don't you? Nothing but a pure genius.' Albert flushed happily. 'It wasn't much,' he said. 'Just a little of what Mr Jenkins calls the deductive method. If two streams flowing in different directions come together, they mix and make a whirlpool. I saw what was happening with Bethany's matches and thought something like that might be happening here. And there was Mr Gaffney's brightred shirt. It started to lose its color. So I thought, well, if stuff starts to fade when it's not on the plane anymore, maybe if you brought faded stuff onto the plane, it would ' 'I hate to interrupt,' Bob said softly, 'but I think that if we intend to try and get back, we should start the process as soon as possible. The sounds we are hearing worry me, but there's something else that worries me more. This airplane is not a closed system. I think there's a good chance that before long it will begin to lose its ... its . . .' 'Its temporal integrity?' Albert suggested. 'Yes. Well put. Any fuel we load into its tanks now may burn ... but a few hours from now, it may not.' An unpleasant idea occurred to Brian that the fuel might stop burning halfway across the country, with the 767 at 36,000 feet. He opened his mouth to tell them this ... and then closed it again. What good would it do to put the idea in their minds, when they could do nothing about it? 'How do we start, Brian?' Nick asked in clipped, businesslike tones. Brian ran the process over in his mind. It would be a little awkward, especially working with men whose only experience with aircraft probably began and ended with model planes, but he thought it could be done. 'We start by turning on the engines and taxiing as close to that Delta 727 as we can get,' he said. 'When we get there, I'll kill the starboard engine and leave the portside engine turning over. We're lucky. This 767 is equipped with wetwing fuel tanks and an APU system that ' A shrill, panicked scream drifted up to them, cutting across the low rattling background noise like a fork drawn across a slate blackboard. It was followed by running footfalls on the ladder. Nick turned in that direction and his hands came up in a gesture Albert recognized at once; he had seen some of the martialarts freaks at school back home practicing the move. It was the classic Tae Kwan Do defensive position. A moment later Bethany's pallid, terrified face appeared in the doorway and Nick let his hands relax. 'Come!' Bethany screamed. 'You've got to come!' She was panting, out of breath, and she reeled backward on the platform of the ladder. For a moment Albert and Brian were sure she was going to tumble back down the steep steps, breaking her neck on the way. Then Nick leaped forward, cupped a hand on the nape of her neck, and pulled her into the plane. Bethany did not even seem to realize she had had a close call. Her dark eyes blazed at them from the white circle of her face. 'Please come! He's stabbed her! I think she's dying!' Nick put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his face toward hers as if he intended to kiss her. 'Who has stabbed whom?' he asked very quietly. 'Who is dying?' 'I ... she ... Mr TTToomy 'Bethany, say teacup.' She looked at him, eyes shocked and uncomprehending. Brian was looking at Nick as though he had gone insane. Nick gave the girl's shoulders a little shake. 'Say teacup. Right now.' 'TTTeacup.' 'Teacup and saucer. Say it, Bethany.' 'Teacup and saucer.' 'All right. Better?' She nodded. 'Yes.' 'Good. If you feel yourself losing control again, say teacup at once and you'll come back. Now  who's been stabbed?' 'The blind girl. Dinah.' 'Bloody shit. All right, Bethany. Just ' Nick raised his voice sharply as he saw Brian move behind Bethany, headed for the ladder, with Albert right behind him. 'No!' he shouted in a bright, hard tone that stopped both of them. 'Stay fucking put!' Brian, who had served two tours in Vietnam and knew the sound of unquestionable command when he heard it, stopped so suddenly that Albert ran facefirst into the middle of his back. I knew it, he thought. I knew he'd take over. It was just a matter of time and circumstance. 'Do you know how this happened or where our wretched travelling companion is now?' Nick asked Bethany. 'The guy ... the guy in the red shirt said' 'All right. Never mind.' He glanced briefly up at Brian. His eyes were red with anger. 'The bloody fools left him alone. I'd wager my pension on it. Well, it won't happen again. Our Mr Toomy has cut his last caper.' He looked back at the girl. Her head drooped; her hair hung dejectedly in her face; she was breathing in great, watery swoops of breath. 'Is she alive, Bethany?' he asked gently. 'I ... I ... I ... I 'Teacup, Bethany.' 'Teacup!' Bethany shouted, and looked up at him from teary, redrimmed eyes. 'I don't know. She was alive when I ... you know, came for you. She might be dead now. He really got her. Jesus, why did we have to get stuck with a fucking psycho? Weren't things bad enough without that?' 'And none of you who were supposed to be minding this fellow have the slightest idea where he went following the attack, is that right?' Bethany put her hands over her face and began to sob. It was all the answer any of them needed. 'Don't be so hard on her,' Albert said quietly, and slipped an arm around Bethany's waist. She put her head on his shoulder and began to sob more strenuously. Nick moved the two of them gently aside. 'If I was inclined to be hard on someone, it would be myself, Ace. I should have stayed behind.' He turned to Brian. 'I'm going back into the terminal. You're not. Mr Jenkins here is almost certainly right; our time here is short. I don't like to think just how short. Start the engines but don't move the aircraft yet. If the girl is alive, we'll need the stairs to bring her up. Bob, bottom of the stairs. Keep an eye out for that bugger Toomy. Albert, you come with me.' Then he said something which chilled them all. 'I almost hope she's dead, God help me. It will save time if she is.' 2 Dinah was not dead, not even unconscious. Laurel had taken off her sunglasses to wipe away the sweat which had sprung up on the girl's face, and Dinah's eyes, deep brown and very wide, looked up unseeingly into Laurel's bluegreen ones. Behind her, Don and Rudy stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down anxiously. 'I'm sorry,' Rudy said for the fifth time. 'I really thought he was out. Out cold.' Laurel ignored him. 'How are you, Dinah?' she asked softly. She didn't want to look at the wooden handle growing out of the girl's dress, but couldn't take her eyes from it. There was very little blood, at least so far; a circle the size of a demitasse cup around the place where the blade had gone in, and that was all. So far. 'It hurts,' Dinah said in a faint voice. 'It's hard to breathe. And it's hot.' 'You're going to be all right,' Laurel said, but her eyes were drawn relentlessly back to the handle of the knife. The girl was very small, and she couldn't understand why the blade hadn't gone all the way through her. Couldn't understand why she wasn't dead already. '. . . out of here,' Dinah said. She grimaced, and a thick, slow curdle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth and ran down her cheek. 'Don't try to talk, honey,' Laurel said, and brushed damp curls back from Dinah's forehead. 'You have to get out of here,' Dinah insisted. Her voice was little more than a whisper. 'And you shouldn't blame Mr Toomy. He's ... he's scared, that's all. Of them.' Don looked around balefully. 'If I find that bastard, I'll scare him,' he said, and curled both hands into fists. A lodge ring gleamed above one knuckle in the growing gloom. 'I'll make him wish he was born dead.' Nick came into the restaurant then, followed by Albert. He pushed past Rudy Warwick without a word of apology and knelt next to Dinah. His bright gaze fixed upon the handle of the knife for a moment, then moved to the child's face. 'Hello, love.' He spoke cheerily, but his eyes had darkened. 'I see you've been airconditioned. Not to worry; you'll be right as a trivet in no time flat.' Dinah smiled a little. 'What's a trivet?' she whispered. More blood ran out of her mouth as she spoke, and Laurel could see it on her teeth. Her stomach did a slow, lazy roll. 'I don't know, but I'm sure it's something nice,' Nick replied. 'I'm going to turn your head to one side. Be as still as you can.' 'Okay.' Nick moved her head, very gently, until her cheek was almost resting on the carpet. 'Hurt?' 'Yes,' Dinah whispered. 'Hot. Hurts to ... breathe.' Her whispery voice had taken on a hoarse, cracked quality. A thin stream of blood ran from her mouth and pooled on the carpet less than ten feet from the place where Craig Toomy's blood was drying. From outside came the sudden highpressure whine of aircraft engines starting. Don, Rudy, and Albert looked in that direction. Nick never looked away from the girl. He spoke gently. 'Do you feel like coughing, Dinah?' 'Yes ... no ... don't know.' 'It's better if you don't,' he said. 'If you get that tickly feeling, try to ignore it. And don't talk anymore, right?' 'Don't ... hurt ... Mr Toomy.' Her words, whispered though they were, conveyed great emphasis, great urgency. 'No, love, wouldn't think of it. Take it from me.' '... don't ... trust ... you . . .' He bent, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear 'But you can, you know  trust me, I mean. For now, all you've got to do is lie still and let us take care of things.' He looked up at Laurel. 'You didn't try to remove the knife?' 'I . . . no.' Laurel swallowed. There was a hot, harsh lump in her throat. The swallow didn't move it. 'Should I have?' 'If you had, there wouldn't be much chance. Do you have any nursing experience?' 'No. 'All right, I'm going to tell you what to do ... but first I need to know if the sight of blood  quite a bit of it  is going to make you pass out. And I need the truth.' Laurel said, 'I haven't really seen a lot of blood since my sister ran into a door and knocked out two of her teeth while we were playing hideandseek. But I didn't faint then.' 'Good. And you're not going to faint now. Mr Warwick, bring me half a dozen tablecloths from that grotty little pub around the corner.' He smiled down at the girl. 'Give me a minute or two, Dinah, and I think you'll feel much better. Young Dr Hopewell is ever so gentle with the ladies  especially the ones who are young and pretty.' Laurel felt a sudden and absolutely absurd desire to reach out and touch Nick's hair. What's the matter with you? This little girl is probably dying, and you're wondering what his hair feels like! Quit it! How stupid can you be? Well, let's see ... Stupid enough to have been flying across the country to meet a man I first contacted through the personals column of a socalled friendship magazine. Stupid enough to have been planning to sleep with him if he turned out to be reasonably presentable ... and if he didn't have bad breath, of course. Oh, quit it! Quit it, Laurel! Yes, the other voice in her mind agreed. You're absolutely right, it's crazy to be thinking things like that at a time like this, and I will quit it ... but I wonder what young Dr Hopewell would be like in bed? I wonder if he would be gentle or Laurel shivered and wondered if this was the way your average nervous breakdown started. 'They're closer,' Dinah said. 'You really' She coughed, and a large bubble of blood appeared between her lips. It popped, splattering her cheeks. Don Gaffney muttered and turned away. 'really have to hurry,' she finished. Nick's cheery smile didn't change a bit. 'I know,' he said. 3 Craig dashed across the terminal, nimbly vaulted the escalator's handrail, and ran down the frozen metal steps with panic roaring and beating in his head like the sound of the ocean in a storm; it even drowned out that other sound, the relentless chewing, crunching sound of the langoliers. No one saw him go. He sprinted across the lower lobby toward the exit doors ... and crashed into them. He had forgotten everything, including the fact that the electriceye dooropeners wouldn't work with the power out. He rebounded, the breath knocked out of him, and fell to the floor, gasping like a netted fish. He lay there for a moment, groping for whatever remained of his mind, and found himself gazing at his right hand. It was only a white blob in the growing darkness, but he could see the black splatters on it, and he knew what they were the little girl's blood. Except she wasn't a little girl, not really. She lust looked like a little girl. She was the head langolier, and with her gone the others won't be able to ... won't be able to ... to ... To what? To find him? But he could still hear the hungry sound of their approach that maddening chewing sound, as if somewhere to the east a tribe of huge, hungry insects was on the march. His mind whirled. Oh, he was so confused. Craig saw a smaller door leading outside, got up, and started in that direction. Then he stopped. There was a road out there, and the road undoubtedly led to the town of Bangor, but so what? He didn't care about Bangor; Bangor was most definitely not part of that fabled BIG PICTURE. It was Boston that he had to get to. If he could get there, everything would be all right. And what did that mean? His father would have known. It meant he had to STOP SCAMPERING AROUND and GET WITH THE PROGRAM. His mind seized on this idea the way a shipwreck victim seizes upon a piece of wreckage  anything that still floats, even if it's only the shithouse door, is a prize to be cherished. If he could get to Boston, this whole experience would be . . . would be . . . 'Set aside,' he muttered. At the words, a bright beam of rational light seemed to shaft through the darkness inside his head, and a voice (it might have been his father's) cried out YES!! in affirmation. But how was he to do that? Boston was too far to walk and the others wouldn't let him back on board the only plane that still worked. Not after what he had done to their little blind mascot. 'But they don't know,' Craig whispered. 'They don't know I did them a favor, because they don't know what she is.' He nodded his head sagely. His eyes, huge and wet in the dark, gleamed. Stow away, his father's voice whispered to him. Stow away on the plane Yes! his mother's voice added. Stow away! That's the ticket. Craiggyweggy! Only if you do that, you won't need a ticket, will you? Craig looked doubtfully toward the luggage conveyor belt. He could use it to get to the tarmac, but suppose they had posted a guard by the plane? The pilot wouldn't think of it  once out of his cockpit, the man was obviously an imbecile  but the Englishman almost surely would. So what was he supposed to do? If the Bangor side of the terminal was no good, and the runway side of the terminal was also no good, what was he supposed to do and where was he supposed to go? Craig looked nervously at the dead escalator. They would be hunting him soon  the Englishman undoubtedly leading the pack  and here he stood in the middle of the floor, as exposed as a stripper who has just tossed her pasties and gstring into the audience. I have to hide, at least for awhile. He had heard the jet engines start up outside, but this did not worry him; he knew a little about planes and understood that Engle couldn't go anywhere until he had refuelled. And refuelling would take time. He didn't have to worry about them leaving without him. Not yet, anyway. Hide, Craiggyweggy. That's what you have to do right now. You have to hide before they come for you. He turned slowly, looking for the best place, squinting into the growing dark. And this time he saw a sign on a door tucked between the Avis desk and the Bangor Travel Agency. AIRPORT SERVICES it read. A sign which could mean almost anything. Craig hurried across to the door, casting nervous looks back over his shoulder as he went, and tried it. As with the door to Airport Security, the knob would not turn but the door opened when he pushed on it. Craig took one final look over his shoulder, saw no one, and closed the door behind him. Utter, total dark swallowed him; in here, he was as blind as the little girl he had stabbed. Craig didn't mind. He was not afraid of the dark; in fact, he rather liked it. Unless you were with a woman, no one expected you to do anything significant in the dark. In the dark, performance ceased to be a factor. Even better, the chewing sound of the langoliers was muffled. Craig felt his way slowly forward, hands outstretched, feet shuffling. After three of these shuffling steps, his thigh came in contact with a hard object that felt like the edge of a desk. He reached forward and down. Yes. A desk. He let his hands flutter over it for a moment, taking comfort in the familiar accoutrements of whitecollar America a stack of papers, an INOUT basket, the edge of a blotter, a caddy filled with paperclips, a pencilandpen set. He worked his way around the desk to the far side, where his hip bumped the arm of a chair. Craig maneuvered himself between the chair and the desk and then sat down. Being behind a desk made him feel better still. It made him feel like himself  calm, in control. He fumbled for the top drawer and pulled it open. Felt inside for a weapon  something sharp. His hand happened almost immediately upon a letteropener. He took it out, shut the drawer, and put it on the desk by his right hand. He just sat there for a moment, listening to the muffled whiskthud of his heartbeat and the dim sound of the jet engines, then sent his hands fluttering delicately over the surface of the desk again until they reencountered the stack of papers. He took the top sheet and brought it toward him, but there wasn't a glimmer of white ... not even when he held it right in front of his eyes. That's all right, Craiggyweggy. You just sit here in the dark. Sit here and wait until it's time to move. When the time comes I'll tell you, his father finished grimly. 'That's right,' Craig said. His fingers spidered up the unseen sheet of paper to the righthand corner. He tore smoothly downward. Riiiip. Calm filled his mind like cool blue water. He dropped the unseen strip on the unseen desk and returned his fingers to the top of the sheet. Everything was going to be fine. just fine. He began to sing under his breath in a tuneless little whisper. 'Just call me angel ... of the morning, baby ' Riiiip. 'Just touch my cheek before you leave me ... baby . Calm now, at peace, Craig sat and waited for his father to tell him what he should do next, just as he had done so many times as a child. 4 'Listen carefully, Albert,' Nick said. 'We have to take her on board the plane, but we'll need a litter to do it. There won't be one on board, but there must be one in here. Where?' 'Gee, Mr Hopewell, Captain Engle would know better than ' 'But Captain Engle isn't here,' Nick said patiently. 'We shall have to manage on our own.' Albert frowned ... then thought of a sign he had seen on the lower level. 'Airport Services?' he asked. 'Does that sound right?' 'It bloody well does,' Nick said. 'Where did you see that?' 'On the lower level. Next to the rentacar counters.' 'All right,' Nick said. 'Here's how we're going to handle this. You and Mr Gaffney are designated litterfinders and litterbearers. Mr Gaffney, I suggest you check by the grill behind the counter. I expect you'll find some sharp knives. I'm sure that's where our unpleasant friend found his. Get one for you and one for Albert.' Don went behind the counter without a word. Rudy Warwick returned from The Red Baron Bar with an armload of redandwhite checked tablecloths. 'I'm really sorry ' he began again, but Nick cut him off. He was still looking at Albert, his face now only a circle of white above the deeper shadow of Dinah's small body. The dark had almost arrived. 'You probably won't see Mr Toomy; my guess is that he left here unarmed, in a panic. I imagine he's either found a bolthole by now or has left the terminal. If you do see him, I advise you very strongly not to engage him unless he makes it necessary.' He swung his head to look at Don as Don returned with a pair of butcher knives. 'Keep your priorities straight, you two. Your mission isn't to recapture Mr Toomy and bring him to justice. Your job is to get a stretcher and bring it here as quick as you can. We have to get out of here.' Don offered Albert one of the knives, but Albert shook his head and looked at Rudy Warwick. 'Could I have one of those tablecloths instead?' Don looked at him as if Albert had gone crazy. 'A tablecloth? What in God's name for?' 'I'll show you.' Albert had been kneeling by Dinah. Now he got up and went behind the counter. He peered around, not sure exactly what he was looking for, but positive he would know it when he saw it. And so he did. There was an oldfashioned twoslice toaster sitting well back on the counter. He picked it up, jerking the plug out of the wall, and wrapped the cord tightly around it as he came back to where the others were. He took one of the tablecloths, spread it, and placed the toaster in one corner. Then he turned it over twice wrapping the toaster in the end of the tablecloth like a Christmas present. He fashioned tight rabbit'sear knots in the corners to make a pocket. When he gripped the loose end of the tablecloth and stood up, the wrapped toaster had become a rock in a makeshift sling. 'When I was a kid, we used to play Indiana Jones,' Albert said apologetically. 'I made something like this and pretended it was my whip. I almost broke my brother David's arm once. I loaded an old blanket with a sashweight I found in the garage. Pretty stupid, I guess. I didn't know how hard it would hit. I got a hell of a spanking for it. It looks stupid, I guess, but it actually works pretty well. It always did, at least.' Nick looked at Albert's makeshift weapon dubiously but said nothing. If a toaster wrapped in a tablecloth made Albert feel more comfortable about going downstairs in the dark, so be it. 'Good enough, then. Now go find a stretcher and bring it back. If there isn't one in the Airport Services office, try someplace else. If you don't find anything in fifteen minutes  no, make that ten  just come back and we'll carry her.' 'You can't do that!' Laurel cried softly. 'If there's internal bleeding Nick looked up at her. 'There's internal bleeding already. And ten minutes is all the time I think we can spare.' Laurel opened her mouth to answer, to argue, but Dinah's husky whisper stopped her. 'He's right.' Don slipped the blade of his knife into his belt. 'Come on, son,' he said. They crossed the terminal together and started down the escalator to the first floor. Albert wrapped the end of his loaded tablecloth around his hand as they went. 5 Nick turned his attention back to the girl on the floor. 'How are you feeling, Dinah?' 'Hurts bad,' Dinah said faintly. 'Yes, of course it does,' Nick said. 'And I'm afraid that what I'm about to do is going to make it hurt a good deal more, for a few seconds, at least. But the knife is in your lung, and it's got to come out. You know that, don't you?' 'Yes.' Her dark, unseeing eyes looked up at him. 'Scared.' 'So am I, Dinah. So am I. But it has to be done. Are you game?' 'Yes.' 'Good girl.' Nick bent and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. 'That's a good, brave girl. It won't take long, and that's a promise. I want you to lie just as still as you can, Dinah, and try not to cough. Do you understand me? It's very important. Try not to cough.' 'I'll try.' 'There may be a moment or two when you feel that you can't breathe. You may even feel that you're leaking, like a tire with a puncture. That's a scary feeling, love, and it may make you want to move around, or cry out. You mustn't do it. And you mustn't cough.' Dinah made a reply none of them could hear. Nick swallowed, armed sweat off his forehead in a quick gesture, and turned to Laurel. 'Fold two of those tablecloths into square pads. Thick as you can. Kneel beside me. Close as you can get. Warwick, take off your belt.' Rudy began to comply at once. Nick looked back at Laurel. She was again struck, and not unpleasantly this time, by the power of his gaze. 'I'm going to grasp the handle of the knife and draw it out. If it's not caught on one of her ribs  and judging from its position, I don't think it is  the blade should come out in one slow, smooth pull. The moment it's out, I will draw back, giving you clear access to the girl's chest area. You will place one of your pads over the wound and press. Press hard. You're not to worry about hurting her, or compressing her chest so much she can't breathe. She's got at least one perforation in her lung, and I'm betting there's a pair of them. Those are what we've got to worry about. Do you understand?' 'Yes.' 'When you've placed the pad, I'm going to lift her against the pressure you're putting on. Mr Warwick here will then slip the other pad beneath her if we see blood on the back of her dress. Then we're going to tie the compresses in place with Mr Warwick's belt.' He glanced up at Rudy. 'When I call for it, my friend, give it to me. Don't make me ask you twice.' 'I won't.' 'Can you see well enough to do this, Nick?' Laurel asked. 'I think so,' Nick replied. 'I hope so.' He looked at Dinah again. 'Ready?' Dinah muttered something. 'All right,' Nick said. He drew in a long breath and then let it out. 'Jesus help me.' He wrapped his slim, longfingered hands around the handle of the knife like a man gripping a baseball bat. He pulled. Dinah shrieked. A great gout of blood spewed from her mouth. Laurel had been leaning tensely forward, and her face was suddenly bathed in Dinah's blood. She recoiled. 'No!' Nick spat at her without looking around. 'Don't you dare go weaksister on me! Don't you dare!' Laurel leaned forward again, gagging and shuddering. The blade, a dully gleaming triangle of silver in the deep gloom, emerged from Dinah's chest and glimmered in the air. The little blind girl's chest heaved and there was a high, unearthly whistling sound as the wound sucked inward. 'Now!' Nick grunted. 'Press down! Hard as you can!' Laurel leaned forward. For just a moment she saw blood pouring out of the hole in Dinah's chest, and then the wound was covered. The tablecloth pad grew warm and wet under her hands almost immediately. 'Harder!' Nick snarled at her.