The little girl in question had gone to sleep again in the meantime, despite her doubts about her ability to do so. Albert Kaussner had also been nodding, perchance to return once more to those mythic streets of Tombstone. He had taken his violin case down from the overhead compartment and was holding it across his lap.

“Huh!” he said, and straightened up.

“I’m sorry,” Jenkins said. “Were you dozing?”

“Nope,” Albert said. “Wide awake.” He turned two large, bloodshot orbs on Jenkins to prove this. A darkish shadow lay under each. Jenkins thought he looked a little like a raccoon which has been startled while raiding garbage cans. “What did she say?”

“She told Miss Stevenson she didn’t think she could get back to sleep because she had been sleeping. Earlier.”

Albert gazed at Dinah for a moment. “Well, she’s out now,” he said.

“I see she is, but that is not the point, dear boy. Not the point at all.”

Albert considered telling Mr. Jenkins that Ace Kaussner, the fastest Hebrew west of the Mississippi and the only Texan to survive the Battle of the Alamo, did not much cotton to being called dear boy, and decided to let it pass ... at least for the time being. “Then what is the point?”

“I was also asleep. Corked off even before the captain—our original captain, I mean—turned off the No SMOKING light. I’ve always been that way. Trains, busses, planes—I drift off like a baby the minute they turn on the motors. What about you, dear boy?”

“What about me what?”

“Were you asleep? You were, weren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“We were all asleep. The people who disappeared were all awake.”

Albert thought about this. “Well... maybe.”

“Nonsense,” Jenkins said almost jovially. “I write mysteries for a living. Deduction is my bread and butter, you might say. Don’t you think that if someone had been awake when all those people were eliminated, that person would have screamed bloody murder, waking the rest of us?”

“I guess so,” Albert agreed thoughtfully. “Except maybe for that guy all the way in the back. I don’t think an air-raid siren would wake that guy up.”

“All right; your exception is duly noted. But no one screamed, did they? And no one has offered to tell the rest of us what happened. So I deduce that only waking passengers were subtracted. Along with the flight crew, of course.”

“Yeah. Maybe so.”

“You look troubled, dear boy. Your expression says that, despite its charms, the idea does not scan perfectly for you. May I ask why not? Have I missed something?” Jenkins’s expression said he didn’t believe that was possible, but that his mother had raised him to be polite.

“I don’t know,” Albert said honestly. “How many of us are there? Eleven?”

“Yes. Counting the fellow in the back—the one who is comatose—we number eleven.”

“If you’re right, shouldn’t there be more of us?”

“Why?”

But Albert fell silent, struck by a sudden, vivid image from his childhood. He had been raised in a theological twilight zone by parents who were not Orthodox but who were not agnostics, either. He and his brothers had grown up observing most of the dietary traditions (or laws, or whatever they were), they had had their Bar Mitzvahs, and they had been raised to know who they were, where they came from, and what that was supposed to mean. And the story Albert remembered most clearly from his childhood visits to temple was the story of the final plague which had been visited on Pharaoh—the gruesome tribute exacted by God’s dark angel of the morning.

In his mind’s eye he now saw that angel moving not over Egypt but through Flight 29, gathering most of the passengers to its terrible breast ... not because they had neglected to daub their lintels (or their seat-backs, perhaps) with the blood of a lamb, but because...

Why? Because why?

Albert didn’t know, but he shivered just the same. And wished that creepy old story had never occurred to him. Let my Frequent Fliers go, he thought. Except it wasn’t funny.

“Albert?” Mr. Jenkins’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Albert, are you all right?”

“Yes. Just thinking.” He cleared his throat. “If all the sleeping passengers were, you know, passed over, there’d be at least sixty of us. Maybe more. I mean, this is the red-eye.”

“Dear boy, have you ever ...”

“Could you call me Albert, Mr. Jenkins? That’s my name.”

Jenkins patted Albert’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Really. I don’t mean to be patronizing. I’m upset, and when I’m upset, I have a tendency to retreat ... like a turtle pulling his head back into his shell. Only what I retreat into is fiction. I believe I was playing Philo Vance. He’s a detective—a great detective—created by the late S. S. Van Dine. I suppose you’ve never read him. Hardly anyone does these days, which is a pity. At any rate, I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” Albert said uncomfortably.

“Albert you are and Albert you shall be from now on,” Robert Jenkins promised. “I started to ask you if you’ve ever taken the red-eye before.”

“No. I’ve never even flown across the country before.”

“Well, I have. Many times. On a few occasions I have even gone against my natural inclination and stayed awake for awhile. Mostly when I was a younger man and the flights were noisier. Having said that much, I may as well date myself outrageously by admitting that my first coast-to-coast trip was on a TWA prop-job that made two stops ... to refuel.

“My observation is that very few people go to sleep on such flights during the first hour or so ... and then just about everyone goes to sleep. During that first hour, people occupy themselves with looking at the scenery, talking with their spouses or their travelling companions, having a drink or two—”

“Settling in, you mean,” Albert suggested. What Mr. Jenkins was saying made perfect sense to him, although he had done precious little settling in himself; he had been so excited about his coming journey and the new life which would be waiting for him that he had hardly slept at all during the last couple of nights. As a result, he had gone out like a light almost as soon as the 767 left the ground.

“Making little nests for themselves,” Jenkins agreed. “Did you happen to notice the drinks trolley outside the cockpit, dea—Albert?”

“I saw it was there,” Albert agreed.

Jenkins’s eyes shone. “Yes indeed—it was either see it or fall over it. But did you really notice it?”

“I guess not, if you saw something I didn’t.”

“It’s not the eye that notices, but the mind, Albert. The trained deductive mind. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I did notice that it had just been taken out of the small closet in which it is stored, and that the used glasses from the pre-flight service were still stacked on the bottom shelf. From this I deduce the following: the plane took off uneventfully, it climbed toward its cruising altitude, and the autopilot device was fortunately engaged. Then the captain turned off the seatbelt light. This would all be about thirty minutes into the flight, if I’m reading the signs correctly—about 1:00 A.M., PDT. When the seatbelt light was turned out, the stewardesses arose and began their first task—cocktails for about one hundred and fifty at about 24,000 feet and rising. The pilot, meanwhile, has programmed the autopilot to level the plane off at 36,000 feet and fly east on heading thus-and-such. A few passengers—eleven of us, in fact—have fallen asleep. Of the rest, some are dozing, perhaps (but not deeply enough to save them from whatever happened), and the rest are all wide awake.”

“Building their nests,” Albert said.

“Exactly! Building their nests!” Jenkins paused and then added, not without some melodrama: “And then it happened!”

“What happened, Mr. Jenkins?” Albert asked. “Do you have any ideas about that?”

Jenkins did not answer for a long time, and when he finally did, a lot of the fun had gone out of his voice. Listening to him, Albert understood for the first time that, beneath the slightly theatrical veneer, Robert Jenkins was as frightened as Albert was himself. He found he did not mind this; it made the elderly mystery writer in his running-to-seed sport-coat seem more real.

“The locked-room mystery is the tale of deduction at its most pure,” Jenkins said. “I’ve written a few of them myself—more than a few, to be completely honest—but I never expected to be a part of one.”

Albert looked at him and could think of no reply. He found himself remembering a Sherlock Holmes story called “The Speckled Band.” In that story a poisonous snake had gotten into the famous locked room through a ventilating duct. The immortal Sherlock hadn’t even had to wake up all his brain-cells to solve that one.

But even if the overhead luggage compartments of Flight 29 had been filled with poisonous snakes—stuffed with them—where were the bodies? Where were the bodies? Fear began to creep into him again, seeming to flow up his legs toward his vitals. He reflected that he had never felt less like that famous gunslinger Ace Kaussner in his whole life.

“If it were just the plane,” Jenkins went on softly, “I suppose I could come up with a scenario—it is, after all, how I have been earning my daily bread for the last twenty-five years or so. Would you like to hear one such scenario?”

“Sure,” Albert said.

“Very well. Let us say that some shadowy government organization like The Shop has decided to carry out an experiment, and we are the test subjects. The purpose of such an experiment, given the circumstances, might be to document the effects of severe mental and emotional stress on a number of average Americans. They, the scientists running the experiment, load the airplane’s oxygen system with some sort of odorless hypnotic drug—”

“Are there such things?” Albert asked, fascinated.

“There are indeed,” Jenkins said. “Diazaline, for one. Methoprominol, for another. I remember when readers who liked to think of themselves as ‘serious-minded’ laughed at Sax Rohmer’s Fu Manchu novels. They called them panting melodrama at its most shameful.” Jenkins shook his head slowly. “Now, thanks to biological research and the paranoia of alphabet agencies like the CIA and the DIA, we’re living in a world that could be Sax Rohmer’s worst nightmare.

“Diazaline, which is actually a nerve gas, would be best. It’s supposed to be very fast. After it is released into the air, everyone falls asleep, except for the pilot, who is breathing uncontaminated air through a mask.”

“But—” Albert began.

Jenkins smiled and raised a hand. “I know what your objection is, Albert, and I can explain it. Allow me?”

Albert nodded.

“The pilot lands the plane—at a secret airstrip in Nevada, let us say. The passengers who were awake when the gas was released—and the stewardesses, of course—are offloaded by sinister men wearing white Andromeda Strain suits. The passengers who were asleep—you and I among them, my young friend—simply go on sleeping, only a little more deeply than before. The pilot then returns Flight 29 to its proper altitude and heading. He engages the autopilot. As the plane reaches the Rockies, the effects of the gas begin to wear off. Diazaline is a so-called clear drug, one that leaves no appreciable after-effects. No hangover, in other words. Over his intercom, the pilot can hear the little blind girl crying out for her aunt. He knows she will wake the others. The experiment is about to commence. So he gets up and leaves the cockpit, closing the door behind him.”

“How could he do that? There’s no knob on the outside.”

Jenkins waved a dismissive hand. “Simplest thing in the world, Albert. He uses a strip of adhesive tape, sticky side out. Once the door latches from the inside, it’s locked.”

A smile of admiration began to overspread Albert’s face—and then it froze. “In that case, the pilot would be one of us,” he said.

“Yes and no. In my scenario, Albert, the pilot is the pilot. The pilot who just happened to be on board, supposedly deadheading to Boston. The pilot who was sitting in first class, less than thirty feet from the cockpit door, when the manure hit the fan.”

“Captain Engle,” Albert said in a low, horrified voice.

Jenkins replied in the pleased but complacent tone of a geometry professor who has just written QED below the proof of a particularly difficult theorem. “Captain Engle,” he agreed.

Neither of them noticed Crew-Neck looking at them with glittering, feverish eyes. Now Crew-Neck took the in-flight magazine from the seat-pocket in front of him, pulled off the cover, and began to tear it in long, slow strips. He let them flutter to the floor, where they joined the shreds of the cocktail napkin around his brown loafers.

His lips were moving soundlessly.

Of course, when you thought about it—or when somebody like Mr. Jenkins, who was clearly a real head, ratty sport-coat or no ratty sport-coat, thought about it for you—it was just too big and too obvious to miss. Almost the entire cast and crew of American Pride’s Flight 29 had disappeared between the Mojave Desert and the Great Divide... but one of the few survivors just happened to be—surprise, surprise! —another American Pride pilot who was, in his own words, “qualified to fly this make and model—also to land it.”

Jenkins had been watching Albert closely, and now he smiled. There wasn’t much humor in that smile. “It’s a tempting scenario,” he said, “isn’t it?”

“We’ll have to capture him as soon as we land,” Albert said, scraping one hand feverishly up the side of his face. “You, me, Mr. Gaffney, and that British guy. He looks tough. Only ... what if the Brit’s in on it, too? He could be Captain Engle’s, you know, bodyguard. Just in case someone figured things out the way you did.”

Jenkins opened his mouth to reply, but Albert rushed on before he could.

“We’ll just have to put the arm on them both. Somehow.” He offered Mr. Jenkins a narrow smile—an Ace Kaussner smile. Cool, tight, dangerous. The smile of a man who is faster than blue blazes, and knows it. “I may not be the world’s smartest guy, Mr. Jenkins, but I’m nobody’s lab rat.”

“But it doesn’t stand up, you know,” Jenkins said mildly.

Albert blinked. “What?”

“The scenario I just outlined for you. It doesn’t stand up.”

“But—you said—”

“I said if it were just the plane, I could come up with a scenario. And I did. A good one. If it was a book idea, I’ll bet my agent could sell it. Unfortunately, it isn’t just the plane. Denver might still have been down there, but all the lights were off if it was. I have been coordinating our route of travel with my wristwatch, and I can tell you now that it’s not just Denver, either. Omaha, Des Moines—no sign of them down there in the dark, my boy. I have seen no lights at all, in fact. No farmhouses, no grain storage and shipping locations, no interstate turnpikes. Those things show up at night, you know—with the new high-intensity lighting, they show up very well, even when one is almost six miles up. The land is utterly dark. Now, I can believe that there might be a government agency unethical enough to drug us all in order to observe our reactions. Hypothetically, at least. What I cannot believe is that even The Shop could have persuaded everyone over our flight-path to turn off their lights in order to reinforce the illusion that we are all alone.”

“Well... maybe it’s all a fake,” Albert suggested. “Maybe we’re really still on the ground and everything we can see outside the windows is, you know, projected. I saw a movie something like that once.”

Jenkins shook his head slowly, regretfully. “I’m sure it was an interesting film, but I don’t believe it would work in real life. Unless our theoretical secret agency has perfected some sort of ultra-wide-screen 3-D projection, I think not. Whatever is happening is not just going on inside the plane, Albert, and that is where deduction breaks down.”

“But the pilot!” Albert said wildly. “What about him just happening to be here at the right place and time?”

“Are you a baseball fan, Albert?”

“Huh? No. I mean, sometimes I watch the Dodgers on TV, but not really.”

“Well, let me tell you what may be the most amazing statistic ever recorded in a game which thrives on statistics. In 1957, Ted Williams reached base on sixteen consecutive at-bats. This streak encompassed six baseball games. In 1941, Joe DiMaggio batted safely in fifty-six straight games, but the odds against what DiMaggio did pale next to the odds against Williams’s accomplishment, which have been put somewhere in the neighborhood of two billion to one. Baseball fans like to say DiMaggio’s streak will never be equaled. I disagree. But I’d be willing to bet that, if they’re still playing baseball a thousand years from now, Williams’s sixteen on-bases in a row will still stand.”

“All of which means what?”

“It means that I believe Captain Engle’s presence on board tonight is nothing more or less than an accident, like Ted Williams’s sixteen consecutive on-bases. And, considering our circumstances, I’d say it’s a very lucky accident indeed. If life was like a mystery novel, Albert, where coincidence is not allowed and the odds are never beaten for long, it would be a much tidier business. I’ve found, though, that in real life coincidence is not the exception but the rule.”

“Then what is happening?” Albert whispered.

Jenkins uttered a long, uneasy sigh. “I’m the wrong person to ask, I’m afraid. It’s too bad Larry Niven or John Varley isn’t on board.”

“Who are those guys?”

“Science-fiction writers,” Jenkins said.

“I was crazy about it as a kid,” Brian said. “You?”

Nick smiled. “Until I was eighteen or so, I firmly believed that the Holy Trinity consisted of Robert Heinlein, John Christopher, and John Wyndham. I’ve been sitting here and running all those old stories through my head, matey. And thinking about such exotic things as time-warps and space-warps and alien raiding parties.”

Brian nodded. He felt relieved; it was good to know he wasn’t the only one who was thinking crazy thoughts.

“I mean, we don’t really have any way of knowing if anything is left down there, do we?”

“No,” Brian said. “We don’t.”

Over Illinois, low-lying clouds had blotted out the dark bulk of the earth far below the plane. He was sure it still was the earth—the Rockies had looked reassuringly familiar, even from 36,000 feet—but beyond that he was sure of nothing. And the cloud cover might hold all the way to Bangor. With Air Traffic Control out of commission, he had no real way of knowing. Brian had been playing with a number of scenarios, and the most unpleasant of the lot was this: that they would come out of the clouds and discover that every sign of human life—including the airport where he hoped to land—was gone. Where would he put this bird down then?

“I’ve always found waiting the hardest part,” Nick said.

The hardest part of what? Brian wondered, but he did not ask.

“Suppose you took us down to 5,000 feet or so?” Nick proposed suddenly. “Just for a quick look-see. Perhaps the sight of a few small towns and interstate highways will set our minds at rest.”

Brian had already considered this idea. Had considered it with great longing. “It’s tempting,” he said, “but I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“The passengers are still my first responsibility, Nick. They’d probably panic, even if I explained what I was going to do in advance. I’m thinking of our loudmouth friend with the pressing appointment at the Pru in particular. The one whose nose you twisted.”

“I can handle him,” Nick replied. “Any others who cut up rough, as well.”

“I’m sure you can,” Brian said, “but I still see no need of scaring them unnecessarily. And we will find out, eventually. We can’t stay up here forever, you know.”

“Too true, matey,” Nick said dryly.

“I might do it anyway, if I could be sure I could get under the cloud cover at 4,000 or 5,000 feet, but with no ATC and no other planes to talk to, I can’t be sure. I don’t even know for sure what the weather’s like down there, and I’m not talking about normal stuff, either. You can laugh at me if you want to—”

“I’m not laughing, matey. I’m not even close to laughing. Believe me.”

“Well, suppose we have gone through a time-warp, like in a science-fiction story? What if I took us down through the clouds and we got one quick look at a bunch of brontosauruses grazing in some Farmer John’s field before we were torn apart by a cyclone or fried in an electrical storm?”

“Do you really think that’s possible?” Nick asked. Brian looked at him closely to see if the question was sarcastic. It didn’t appear to be, but it was hard to tell. The British were famous for their dry sense of humor, weren’t they?

Brian started to tell him he had once seen something just like that on an old Twilight Zone episode and then decided it wouldn’t help his credibility at all. “It’s pretty unlikely, I suppose, but you get the idea—we just don’t know what we’re dealing with. We might hit a brand-new mountain in what used to be upstate New York. Or another plane. Hell—maybe even a rocket-shuttle. After all, if it’s a time-warp, we could as easily be in the future as in the past.”

Nick looked out through the window. “We seem to have the sky pretty much to ourselves.”

“Up here, that’s true. Down there, who knows? And who knows is a very dicey situation for an airline pilot. I intend to overfly Bangor when we get there, if these clouds still hold. I’ll take us out over the Atlantic and drop under the ceiling as we head back. Our odds will be better if we make our initial descent over water.”

“So for now, we just go on.”

“Right.”

“And wait.”

“Right again.”

Nick sighed. “Well, you’re the captain.”

Brian smiled. “That’s three in a row.”

Craig Toomy had been raised in his own dark trench, had lived in his own atmosphere of high pressure. His father had been an executive in the Bank of America, away from home for long stretches of time, a caricature type-A overachiever. He drove his only child as furiously and as unforgivingly as he drove himself. The bedtime stories he told Craig in Craig’s early years terrified the boy. Nor was this surprising, because terror was exactly the emotion Roger Toomy meant to awaken in the boy’s breast. These tales concerned themselves, for the most part, with a race of monstrous beings called the langoliers.

Their job, their mission in life (in the world of Roger Toomy, everything had a job, everything had serious work to do), was to prey on lazy, time-wasting children. By the time he was seven, Craig was a dedicated type-A overachiever, just like Daddy. He had made up his mind: the langoliers were never going to get him.

A report card which did not contain all A’s was an unacceptable report card. An A—was the subject of a lecture fraught with dire warnings of what life would be like digging ditches or emptying garbage cans, and a B resulted in punishment—most commonly confinement to his room for a week. During that week, Craig was allowed out only for school and for meals. There was no time off for good behavior. On the other hand, extraordinary achievement—the time Craig won the tri-school decathlon, for instance—warranted no corresponding praise. When Craig showed his father the medal which had been awarded him on that occasion—in an assembly before the entire student body—his father glanced at it, grunted once, and went back to his newspaper. Craig was nine years old when his father died of a heart attack. He was actually sort of relieved that the Bank of America’s answer to General Patton was gone.

His mother was an alcoholic whose drinking had been controlled only by her fear of the man she had married. Once Roger Toomy was safely in the ground, where he could no longer search out her bottles and break them, or slap her and tell her to get hold of herself, for God’s sake, Catherine Toomy began her life’s work in earnest. She alternately smothered her son with affection and froze him with rejection, depending on how much gin was currently perking through her bloodstream. Her behavior was often odd and sometimes bizarre. On the day Craig turned ten, she placed a wooden kitchen match between two of his toes, lit it, and sang “Happy Birthday to You” while it burned slowly down toward his flesh. She told him that if he tried to shake it out or kick it loose, she would take him to THE ORPHAN’S HOME at once. The threat of THE ORPHAN’S HOME was a frequent one when Catherine Toomy was loaded. “I ought to, anyway,” she told him as she lit the match which stuck up between her weeping son’s toes like a skinny birthday candle. “You’re just like your father. He didn’t know how to have fun, and neither do you. You’re a bore, Craiggy-weggy.” She finished the song and blew out the match before the skin of Craig’s second and third right toes was more than singed, but Craig never forgot the yellow flame, the curling, blackening stick of wood, and the growing heat as his mother warbled “Happy birthday, dear Craiggy-weggy, happy birthday to yoooou” in her droning, off-key drunk’s voice.

Pressure.

Pressure in the trenches.

Craig Toomy continued to get all A’s, and he continued to spend a lot of time in his room. The place which had been his Coventry had become his refuge. Mostly he studied there, but sometimes—when things were going badly, when he felt pressed to the wall—he would take one piece of notepaper after another and tear them into narrow strips. He would let them flutter around his feet in a growing drift while his eyes stared out blankly into space. But these blank periods were not frequent. Not then.

He graduated valedictorian from high school. His mother didn’t come. She was drunk. He graduated ninth in his class from the UCLA Graduate School of Management. His mother didn’t come. She was dead. In the dark trench which existed in the center of his own heart, Craig was quite sure that the langoliers had finally come for her.

Craig went to work for the Desert Sun Banking Corporation of California as part of the executive training program. He did very well, which was not surprising; Craig Toomy had been built, after all, to get all A’s, built to thrive under the pressures which exist in the deep fathoms. And sometimes, following some small reverse at work (and in those days, only five short years ago, all the reverses had been small ones), he would go back to his apartment in Westwood, less than half a mile from the condo Brian Engle would occupy following his divorce, and tear small strips of paper for hours at a time. The paper-tearing episodes were gradually becoming more frequent.

During those five years, Craig ran the corporate fast track like a greyhound chasing a mechanical rabbit. Water-cooler gossips speculated that he might well become the youngest vice-president in Desert Sun’s glorious forty-year history. But some fish are built to rise just so far and no farther; they explode if they transgress their built-in limits.

Eight months ago, Craig Toomy had been put in sole charge of his first big project—the corporate equivalent of a master’s thesis. This project was created by the bonds department. Bonds—foreign bonds and junk bonds (they were frequently the same)—were Craig’s specialty. This project proposed buying a limited number of questionable South American bonds—sometimes called Bad Debt Bonds—on a carefully set schedule. The theory behind these buys was sound enough, given the limited insurance on them that was available, and the much larger tax-breaks available on turn-overs resulting in a profit (Uncle Sam was practically falling all over himself to keep the complex structure of South American indebtedness from collapsing like a house of cards). It just had to be done carefully.

Craig Toomy had presented a daring plan which raised a good many eyebrows. It centered upon a large buy of various Argentinian bonds, generally considered to be the worst of a bad lot. Craig had argued forcefully and persuasively for his plan, producing facts, figures, and projections to prove his contention that Argentinian bonds were a good deal more solid than they looked. In one bold stroke, he argued, Desert Sun could become the most important—and richest—buyer of foreign bonds in the American West. The money they made, he said, would be a lot less important than the long-run credibility they would establish.

After a good deal of discussion—some of it hot—Craig’s take on the project got a green light. Tom Holby, a senior vice-president, had drawn Craig aside after the meeting to offer congratulations ... and a word of warning. “If this comes off the way you expect at the end of the fiscal year, you’re going to be everyone’s fair-haired boy. If it doesn’t, you are going to find yourself in a very windy place, Craig. I’d suggest that the next few months might be a good time to build a storm-shelter.”

“I won’t need a storm-shelter, Mr. Holby,” Craig said confidently. “After this, what I’ll need is a hang-glider. This is going to be the bond-buy of the century—like finding diamonds at a barn-sale. Just wait and see.”

He had gone home early that night, and as soon as his apartment door was closed and triple-locked behind him, the confident smile had slipped from his face. What replaced it was that unsettling look of blankness. He had bought the news magazines on the way home. He took them into the kitchen, squared them up neatly in front of him on the table, and began to rip them into long, narrow strips. He went on doing this for over six hours. He ripped until Newsweek, Time, and U.S. News & World Report lay in shreds on the floor all around him. His Gucci loafers were buried. He looked like the lone survivor of an explosion in a tickertape factory.

The bonds he had proposed buying—the Argentinian bonds in particular—were a much higher risk than he had let on. He had pushed his proposal through by exaggerating some facts, suppressing others ... and even making some up out of whole cloth. Quite a few of these latter, actually. Then he had gone home, ripped strips of paper for hours, and wondered why he had done it. He did not know about the fish that exist in trenches, living their lives and dying their deaths without ever seeing the sun. He did not know that there are both fish and men whose bête noire is not pressure but the lack of it. He only knew that he had been under an unbreakable compulsion to buy those bonds, to paste a target on his own forehead.

Now he was due to meet with bond representatives of five large banking corporations at the Prudential Center in Boston. There would be much comparing of notes, much speculation about the future of the world bond market, much discussion about the buys of the last sixteen months and the result of those buys. And before the first day of the three-day conference was over, they would all know what Craig Toomy had known for the last ninety days: the bonds he had purchased were now worth less than six cents on the dollar. And not long after that, the top brass at Desert Sun would discover the rest of the truth: that he had bought more than three times as much as he had been empowered to buy. He had also invested every penny of his personal savings ... not that they would care about that.

Who knows how the fish captured in one of those deep trenches and brought swiftly toward the surface—toward the light of a sun it has never suspected—may feel? Is it not at least possible that its final moments are filled with ecstasy rather than horror? That it senses the crushing reality of all that pressure only as it finally falls away? That it thinks—as far as fish may be supposed to think, that is—in a kind of joyous frenzy, I am free of that weight at last! in the seconds before it explodes? Probably not. Fish from those dark depths may not feel at all, at least not in any way we could recognize, and they certainly do not think ... but people do.

Instead of feeling shame, Craig Toomy had been dominated by vast relief and a kind of hectic, horrified happiness as he boarded American Pride’s Flight 29 to Boston. He was going to explode, and he found he didn’t give a damn. In fact, he found himself looking forward to it. He could feel the pressure peeling away from all the surfaces of his skin as he rose toward the surface. For the first time in weeks, there had been no paper-ripping. He had fallen asleep before Flight 29 even left the gate, and he had slept like a baby until that blind little brat had begun to caterwaul.

And now they told him everything had changed, and that simply could not be allowed. It must not be allowed. He had been firmly caught in the net, had felt the dizzying rise and the stretch of his skin as it tried to compensate. They could not now change their minds and drop him back into the deeps.

Bangor?

Bangor, Maine?

Oh no. No indeed.

Craig Toomy was vaguely aware that most of the people on Flight 29 had disappeared, but he didn’t care. They weren’t the important thing. They weren’t part of what his father had always liked to call THE BIG PICTURE. The meeting at the Pru was part of THE BIG PICTURE.

This crazy idea of diverting to Bangor, Maine ... whose scheme, exactly, had that been?

It had been the pilot’s idea, of course. Engle’s idea. The so-called captain.

Engle, now... Engle might very well be part of THE BIG PICTURE. He might, in fact, be an AGENT OF THE ENEMY. Craig had suspected this in his heart from the moment when Engle had begun to speak over the intercom, but in this case he hadn’t needed to depend on his heart, had he? No indeed. He had been listening to the conversation between the skinny kid and the man in the fire-sale sport-coat. The man’s taste in clothes was terrible, but what he had to say made perfect sense to Craig Toomy ... at least, up to a point.

In that case, the pilot would be one of us, the kid had said.

Yes and no, the guy in the fire-sale sport-coat had said. In my scenario, the pilot is the pilot. The pilot who just happened to be on board, supposedly deadheading to Boston, the pilot who just happened to be sitting less than thirty feet from the cockpit door.

Engle, in other words.

And the other fellow, the one who had twisted Craig’s nose, was clearly in on it with him, serving as a kind of sky-marshal to protect Engle from anyone who happened to catch on.

He hadn’t eavesdropped on the conversation between the kid and the man in the fire-sale sport-coat much longer, because around that time the man in the fire-sale sport-coat stopped making sense and began babbling a lot of crazy shit about Denver and Des Moines and Omaha being gone. The idea that three large American cities could simply disappear was absolutely out to lunch ... but that didn’t mean everything the old guy had to say was out to lunch.

It was an experiment, of course. That idea wasn’t silly, not a bit. But the old guy’s idea that all of them were test subjects was just more crackpot stuff.

Me, Craig thought. It’s me. I’m the test subject.

All his life Craig had felt himself a test subject in an experiment just like this one. This is a question, gentlemen, of ratio: pressure to success. The right ratio produces some x-factor. What x-factor? That is what our test subject, Mr. Craig Toomy, will show us.

But then Craig Toomy had done something they hadn’t expected, something none of their cats and rats and guinea pigs had ever dared to do: he had told them he was pulling out.

And now it had all become clear to him, so clear. These other people were either innocent bystanders or extras who had been hired to give this stupid little drama some badly needed verisimilitude. The whole thing had been rigged with one object in mind: to keep Craig Toomy away from Boston, to keep Craig Toomy from opting out of the experiment.

But I’ll show them, Craig thought. He pulled another sheet from the in-flight magazine and looked at it. It showed a happy man, a man who had obviously never heard of the langoliers, who obviously did not know they were lurking everywhere, behind every bush and tree, in every shadow, just over the horizon. The happy man was driving down a country road behind the wheel of his Avis rental car. The ad said that when you showed your American Pride Frequent Flier Card at the Avis desk, they’d just about give you that rental car, and maybe a game-show hostess to drive it, as well. He began to tear a strip of paper from the side of the glossy ad. The long, slow ripping sound was at the same time excruciating and exquisitely calming.

He dropped the strip onto the floor and began on the next one. It was important to rip slowly. It was important that each strip should be as narrow as possible, but you couldn’t make them too narrow or they got away from you and petered out before you got to the bottom of the page. Getting each one just right demanded sharp eyes and fearless hands. And I’ve got them. You better believe it. You just better believe it.

His hands stopped halfway down the page. He looked out the window and saw his own long, pallid face superimposed over the darkness.

Craig Toomy had never killed anyone in his life. Could he do it? With growing relief, he decided that he could. Not while they were still in the air, of course; the Englishman was very fast, very strong, and up here there were no weapons that were sure enough. But once they landed?

After all, the conference at the Pru was scheduled to last for three days. It seemed now that his late arrival was unavoidable, but at least he would be able to explain: he had been drugged and taken hostage by a government agency. It would stun them. He could see their startled faces as he stood before them, the three hundred bankers from all over the country assembled to discuss bonds and indebtedness, bankers who would instead hear the dirty truth about what the government was up to. My friends, I was abducted by—

—and was able to escape only when I—

Craig Toomy’s hands began to move again. He tore off the rest of the strip, dropped it on the floor, and began on the next one. There were a lot of pages in the magazine, there were a lot of strips to each page, and that meant a lot of work lay ahead before the plane landed. But he wasn’t worried.

Craig Toomy was a can-do type of guy.

I’m supposed to be starting my first real vacation in ten years, she had said, but that was a lie. It contained a small grain of truth, but she doubted if she had been very believable when she told it; she had not been raised to tell lies, and her technique was not very good. Not that any of the people left on Flight 29 would have cared much either way, she supposed. Not in this situation. The fact that you were going to Boston to meet—and almost certainly sleep with—a man you had never met paled next to the fact that you were heading east in an airplane from which most of the passengers and all of the crew had disappeared.

His name was Darren Crosby.

She wouldn’t need to look at his photograph; that much was true. She had memorized his face, just as she had memorized most of his letters. The question was why. And to that question she had no answer. Not even a clue. It was just another proof of J. R. R. Tolkien’s observation: you must be careful each time you step out of your door, because your front walk is really a road, and the road leads ever onward. If you aren’t careful, you’re apt to find yourself ... well... simply swept away, a stranger in a strange land with no clue as to how you got there.

Laurel had told everyone where she was going, but she had told no one why she was going or what she was doing. She was a graduate of the University of California with a master’s degree in library science. Although she was no model, she was cleanly built and pleasant enough to look at. She had a small circle of good friends, and they would have been flabbergasted by what she was up to: heading off to Boston, planning to stay with a man she knew only through correspondence, a man she had met through the extensive personals column of a magazine called Friends and Lovers.

She was, in fact, flabbergasted herself.

Darren Crosby was six-feet-one, weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, and had dark-blue eyes. He preferred Scotch (although not to excess), he had a cat named Stanley, he was a dedicated heterosexual, he was a perfect gentleman (or so he claimed), and he thought Laurel was the most beautiful name he had ever heard. The pictures he had sent showed a man with a pleasant, open, intelligent face. She guessed he was the sort of man who would look sinister if he didn’t shave twice a day. And that was really all she knew.

Laurel had corresponded with half a dozen men over half a dozen years—it was a hobby, she supposed—but she had never expected to take the next step ... this step. She supposed that Darren’s wry and self-deprecating sense of humor was part of the attraction, but she was dismally aware that her real reasons were not in him at all, but in herself. And wasn’t the real attraction her own inability to understand this strong desire to step out of character? To just fly off into the unknown, hoping for the right kind of lightning to strike?

What are you doing? she asked herself again.

The plane ran through some light turbulence and back into smooth air again. Laurel stirred out of her doze and looked around. She saw the young teenaged girl had taken the seat across from her. She was looking out the window.

“What do you see?” Laurel asked. “Anything?”

“Well, the sun’s up,” the girl said, “but that’s all.”

“What about the ground?” Laurel didn’t want to get up and look for herself. Dinah’s head was still resting on her, and Laurel didn’t want to wake her.

“Can’t see it. It’s all clouds down there.” She looked around. Her eyes had cleared and a little color—not much, but a little—had come back into her face. “My name’s Bethany Simms. What’s yours?”

“Laurel Stevenson.”

“Do you think we’ll be all right?”

“I think so,” Laurel said, and then added reluctantly: “I hope so.”

“I’m scared about what might be under those clouds,” Bethany said, “but I was scared anyway. About Boston. My mother all at once decided how it would be a great idea if I spent a couple of weeks with my Aunt Shawna, even though school starts again in ten days. I think the idea was for me to get off the plane, just like Mary’s little lamb, and then Aunt Shawna pulls the string on me.”

“What string?”

“Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to the nearest rehab, and start drying out,” Bethany said. She raked her hands through her short dark hair. “Things were already so weird that this seems like just more of the same.” She looked Laurel over carefully and then added with perfect seriousness: “This is really happening, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve already pinched myself. Several times. Nothing changed.”

“It’s real.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” Bethany said. “It seems like one of those stupid disaster movies. Airport 1990, something like that. I keep looking around for a couple of old actors like Wilford Brimley and Olivia de Havilland. They’re supposed to meet during the shitstorm and fall in love, you know?”

“I don’t think they’re on the plane,” Laurel said gravely. They glanced into each other’s eyes and for a moment they almost laughed together. It could have made them friends if it had happened ... but it didn’t. Not quite.

“What about you, Laurel? Do you have a disaster-movie problem?”

“I’m afraid not,” Laurel replied ... and then she did begin to laugh. Because the thought which shot across her mind in red neon was Oh you liar!

Bethany put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Jesus,” she said after a minute. “I mean, this is the ultimate hairball, you know?”

Laurel nodded. “I know.” She paused and then asked, “Do you need a rehab, Bethany?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to look out the window again. Her smile was gone and her voice was morose. “I guess I might. I used to think it was just party-time, but now I don’t know. I guess it’s out of control. But getting shipped off this way... I feel like a pig in a slaughterhouse chute.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurel said, but she was also sorry for herself. The blind girl had already adopted her; she did not need a second adoptee. Now that she was fully awake again she found herself scared—badly scared. She did not want to be behind this kid’s dumpster if she was going to offload a big pile of disaster-movie angst. The thought made her grin again; she simply couldn’t help it. It was the ultimate hairball. It really was.

“I’m sorry, too,” Bethany said, “but I guess this is the wrong time to worry about it, huh?”

“I guess maybe it is,” Laurel said.

“The pilot never disappeared in any of those Airport movies, did he?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It’s almost six o’clock. Two and a half hours to go.”

“Yes.”

“If only the world’s still there,” Bethany said, “that’ll be enough for a start.” She looked closely at Laurel again. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any grass, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Bethany shrugged and offered Laurel a tired smile which was oddly winning. “Well,” she said, “you’re one ahead of me—I’m just afraid.”

“Well,” he said to Nick without looking around, “I think it’s about that time. Shit or git.”

He reached forward and flicked on the FASTEN SEATBELTS sign. The bell made its low, pleasant chime. Then he flicked the intercom toggle and picked up the mike.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Engle again. We’re currently over the Atlantic Ocean, roughly thirty miles east of the Maine coast, and I’ll be commencing our initial descent into the Bangor area very soon. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t turn on the seatbelt sign so early, but these circumstances aren’t ordinary, and my mother always said prudence is the better part of valor. In that spirit, I want you to make sure your lap-belts are snug and secure. Conditions below us don’t look especially threatening, but since I have no radio communication, the weather is going to be something of a surprise package for all of us. I kept hoping the clouds would break, and I did see a few small holes over Vermont, but I’m afraid they’ve closed up again. I can tell you from my experience as a pilot that the clouds you see below us don’t suggest very bad weather to me. I think the weather in Bangor may be overcast, with some light rain. I’m beginning our descent now. Please be calm; my board is green across and all procedures here on the flight deck remain routine.”

Brian had not bothered programming the autopilot for descent; he now began the process himself. He brought the plane around in a long, slow turn, and the seat beneath him canted slightly forward as the 767 began its slow slide down toward the clouds at 4,000 feet.

“Very comforting, that,” Nick said. “You should have been a politician, matey.”

“I doubt if they’re feeling very comfortable right now,” Brian said. “I know I’m not.”

He was, in fact, more frightened than he had ever been while at the controls of an airplane. The pressure-leak on Flight 7 from Tokyo seemed like a minor glitch in comparison to this situation. His heart was beating slowly and heavily in his chest, like a funeral drum. He swallowed and heard a click in his throat. Flight 29 passed through 30,000 feet, still descending. The white, featureless clouds were closer now. They stretched from horizon to horizon like some strange ballroom floor.

“I’m scared shitless, mate,” Nick Hopewell said in a strange, hoarse voice. “I saw men die in the Falklands, took a bullet in the leg there myself, got the Teflon knee to prove it, and I came within an ace of getting blown up by a truck bomb in Beirut—in ’82, that was—but I’ve never been as scared as I am right now. Part of me would like to grab you and make you take us right back up. Just as far up as this bird will go.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Brian replied. His own voice was no longer steady; he could hear his heartbeat in it, making it jig-jag up and down in minute variations. “Remember what I said before—we can’t stay up here forever.”

“I know it. But I’m afraid of what’s under those clouds. Or not under them.”

“Well, we’ll all find out together.”

“No help for it, is there, mate?”

“Not a bit.”

The 767 passed through 25,000 feet, still descending.

The only other sound was the soft rii-ip ... rii-ip ... rii-ip of Craig Toomy dismembering the in-flight magazine. He sat with his shoes in a deep pile of paper strips.

“Would you mind stopping that?” Don Gaffney asked. His voice was tight and strained. “It’s driving me up the wall, buddy.”

Craig turned his head. Regarded Don Gaffney with a pair of wide, smooth, empty eyes. Turned his head back. Held up the page he was currently working on, which happened to be the eastern half of the American Pride route map.

Gaffney opened his mouth to say something, then closed it tight.

Laurel had her arm around Dinah’s shoulders. Dinah was holding Laurel’s free hand in both of hers.

Albert sat with Robert Jenkins, just ahead of Gaffney. Ahead of him was the girl with the short dark hair. She was looking out the window, her body held so stiffly upright it might have been wired together. And ahead of her sat Baldy from business class.

“Well, at least we’ll be able to get some chow!” he said loudly.

No one answered. The main cabin seemed encased in a stiff shell of tension. Albert Kaussner felt each individual hair on his body standing at attention. He searched for the comforting cloak of Ace Kaussner, that duke of the desert, that baron of the Buntline, and could not find him. Ace had gone on vacation.

The clouds were much closer. They had lost their flat look; Laurel could now see fluffy curves and mild crenellations filled with early-morning shadows. She wondered if Darren Crosby was still down there, patiently waiting for her at a Logan Airport arrivals gate somewhere along the American Pride concourse. She was not terribly surprised to find she didn’t care much, one way or another. Her gaze was drawn back to the clouds, and she forgot all about Darren Crosby, who liked Scotch (although not to excess) and claimed to be a perfect gentleman.

She imagined a hand, a huge green hand, suddenly slamming its way up through those clouds and seizing the 767 the way an angry child might seize a toy. She imagined the hand squeezing, saw the jet-fuel exploding in orange licks of flame between the huge knuckles, and closed her eyes for a moment.

Don’t go down there! she wanted to scream. Oh please, don’t go down there!

But what choice had they? What choice?

“I’m very scared,” Bethany Simms said in a blurred, watery voice. She moved to one of the seats in the center section, fastened her lap-belt, and pressed her hands tightly against her middle. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

Craig Toomy glanced at her, and then began ripping a fresh strip from the route map. After a moment, Albert unbuckled his seatbelt, got up, sat down beside Bethany, and buckled up again. As soon as he had, she grasped his hands. Her skin was as cold as marble.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said, striving to sound tough and unafraid, striving to sound like the fastest Hebrew west of the Mississippi. Instead he only sounded like Albert Kaussner, a seventeen-year-old violin student who felt on the verge of pissing his pants.

“I hope—” she began, and then Flight 29 began to bounce. Bethany screamed.

“What’s wrong?” Dinah asked Laurel in a thin, anxious voice. “Is something wrong with the plane? Are we going to crash?”

“I don’t—”

Brian’s voice came over the speakers. “This is ordinary light turbulence, folks,” he said. “Please be calm. We’re apt to hit some heavier bumps when we go into the clouds. Most of you have been through this before, so just settle down.”

Don Gaffney looked toward the man in the crew-neck jersey again and felt a sudden, almost overmastering urge to rip the flight magazine out of the weird son of a bitch’s hands and begin whacking him with it.

The clouds were very close now. Robert Jenkins could see the 767’s black shape rushing across their white surfaces just below the plane. Shortly the plane would kiss its own shadow and disappear. He had never had a premonition in his life, but one came to him now, one which was sure and complete. When we break through those clouds, we are going to see something no human being has ever seen before. It will be something which is utterly beyond belief... yet we will be forced to believe it. We will have no choice.

His hands curled into tight knobs on the arms of his seat. A drop of sweat ran.into one eye. Instead of raising a hand to wipe the eye clear, Jenkins tried to blink the sting away. His hands felt nailed to the arms of the seat.

“Is it going to be all right?” Dinah asked frantically. Her hands were locked over Laurel’s. They were small, but they squeezed with almost painful force. “Is it really going to be all right?”

Laurel looked out the window. Now the 767 was skimming the tops of the clouds, and the first cotton-candy wisps drifted past her window. The plane ran through another series of jolts and she had to close her throat against a moan. For the first time in her life she felt physically ill with terror.

“I hope so, honey,” she said. “I hope so, but I really don’t know.”

“No,” Brian said. “It says the world is down there, and that’s all it says. We’re—”

“Wait,” Nick said. His voice had a tight, strangled sound, as if his throat had closed down to a bare pinhole. “Climb back up. Let’s think this over. Wait for the clouds to break—”

“Not enough time and not enough fuel.” Brian’s eyes were locked on his instruments. The plane began to bounce again. He made the corrections automatically. “Hang on. We’re going in.”

He pushed the wheel forward. The altimeter needle began to move more swiftly beneath its glass circle. And Flight 29 slid into the clouds. For a moment its tail protruded, cutting through the fluffy surface like the fin of a shark. A moment later that was also gone and the sky was empty ... as if no plane had ever been there at all.