inah 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 peanut-butter-and-jelly 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 bright-red 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 wet-wing 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 martial-arts 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 T-T-Toomy..."

"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."

"T-T-Teacup."

"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 face-first 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, red-rimmed 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 blue-green 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 air-conditioned. 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 high-pressure 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 hide-and-seek. 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 so-called 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 electric-eye door-openers 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. Craiggy-weggy! 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 g-string 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, Craiggy-weggy. 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 white-collar America: a stack of papers, an IN/OUT basket, the edge of a blotter, a caddy filled with paper-clips, a pencil-and-pen 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 letter-opener.

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 whisk-thud 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 re-encountered 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, Craiggy-weggy. 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.

Riii-ip.

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 morn-ing, ba-by - "

Riii-ip.

"Just touch my cheek before you leave me... ba-by."

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 rent-a-car counters."

"All right," Nick said. "Here's how we're going to handle this. You and Mr Gaffney are designated litter-finders and litter-bearers. 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 red-and-white 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 old-fashioned two-slice 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's-ear 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, long-fingered 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. "Press harder! Seal it! Seal the wound!"

Laurel now understood what people meant when they talked about coming completely unstrung, because she felt on the verge of it herself. "I can't! I'll break her ribs if - "

"Fuck her ribs! You have to make a seal!"

Laurel rocked forward on her knees and brought her entire weight down on her hands. Now she could feel liquid seeping slowly between her fingers, although she had folded the tablecloth thick.

The Englishman tossed the knife aside and leaned forward until his face was almost touching Dinah's. Her eyes were closed. He rolled one of the lids. "I think she's finally out," he said. "Can't tell for sure because her eyes are so odd, but I hope to heaven she is." Hair had fallen over his brow. He tossed it back impatiently with a jerk of his head and looked at Laurel. "You're doing well. Stay with it, all right? I'm rolling her now. Keep the pressure on as I do."

"There's so much blood," Laurel groaned. "Will she drown?"

"I don't know. Keep the pressure on. Ready, Mr Warwick?"

"Oh Christ I guess so," Rudy Warwick croaked.

"Right. Here we go." Nick slipped his hands beneath Dinah's right shoulderblade and grimaced. "It's worse than I thought," he muttered. "Far worse. She's soaked." He began to pull Dinah slowly upward against the pressure Laurel was putting on. Dinah uttered a thick, croaking moan. A gout of half-congealed blood flew from her mouth and spattered across the floor. And now Laurel could hear a rain of blood pattering down on the carpet from beneath the girl.

Suddenly the world began to swim away from her.

"Keep that pressure on!" Nick cried. "Don't let up!"

But she was fainting.

It was her understanding of what Nick Hopewell would think of her if she did faint which caused her to do what she did next. Laurel stuck her tongue out between her teeth like a child making a face and bit down on it as hard as she could. The pain was bright and exquisite, the salty taste of her own blood immediately filled her mouth... but that sensation that the world was swimming away from her like a big lazy fish in an aquarium passed. She was here again.

Downstairs, there was a sudden shriek of pain and surprise. It was followed by a hoarse shout. On the heels of the shout came a loud, drilling scream.

Rudy and Laurel both turned in that direction. "The boy!" Rudy said. "Him and Gaffney! They - "

"They've found Mr Toomy after all," Nick said. His face was a complicated mask of effort. The tendons on his neck stood out like steel pulleys. "We'll just have to hope - "

"There was a thud from downstairs, followed by a terrible howl of agony. Then a whole series of muffled thumps, that they're on top of the situation. We can't do anything about it now. If we stop in the middle of what we're doing, this little girl is going to die for sure."

"But that sounded like the kid!"

"Can't be helped, can it? Slide the pad under her, Warwick. Do it right now, or I'll kick your bloody arse square."

6

Don led the way down the escalator, then stopped briefly at the bottom to fumble in his pocket. He brought out a square object that gleamed faintly in the dark. "It's my Zippo," he said. "Do you think it'll still work?"

"I don't know," Albert said. "It might... for awhile. You better not try it until you have to. I sure hope it does. We won't be able to see a thing without it."

"Where's this Airport Services place?"

Albert pointed to the door Craig Toomy had gone through less than five minutes before. "Right over there."

"Do you think it's unlocked?"

"Well," Albert said, "there's only one way to find out."

They crossed the terminal, Don still leading the way with his lighter in his right hand.

7

Craig heard them coming - more servants of the langoliers, no doubt. But he wasn't worried. He had taken care of the thing which had been masquerading as a little girl, and he would take care of these other things as well. He curled his hand around the letter-opener, got up, and sidled back around the desk.

"Do you think it's unlocked?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out."

You're going to find out something, anyway, Craig thought. He reached the wall beside the door. It was lined with paper-stacked shelves. He reached out and felt doorhinges. Good. The opening door would block him off from them... not that they were likely to see him, anyway. It was as black as an elephant's asshole in here. He raised the letter-opener to shoulder height.

"The knob doesn't move." Craig relaxed... but only for a moment. "Try pushing it." That was the smart-ass kid. The door began to open.

8

Don stepped in, blinking at the gloom. He thumbed the cover of his lighter back, held it up, and flicked the wheel. There was a spark and the wick caught at once, producing a low flame. They saw what was apparently a combined office and storeroom. There was an untidy stack of luggage in one corner and a Xerox machine in another. The back wall was lined with shelves and the shelves were stacked with what looked like forms of various kinds.

Don stepped further into the office, lifting his lighter like a spelunker holding up a guttering candle in a dark cave. He pointed to the right wall. "Hey, kid! Ace! Look!"

A poster mounted there showed a tipsy guy in a business suit staggering out of a bar and looking at his watch. WORK IS THE CURSE OF THE DRINKING CLASS, the poster advised. Mounted on the wall beside it was a white plastic box with a large red cross on it. And leaning below it was a folded stretcher... the kind with wheels.

Albert wasn't looking at the poster or the first-aid kit or the stretcher, however. His eyes were fixed on the desk in the center of the room.

On it he saw a heaped tangle of paper strips.

"Look out!" he shouted. "Look out, he's in h - "

Craig Toomy stepped out from behind the door and struck.

9

"Belt," Nick said.

Rudy didn't move or reply. His head was turned toward the door of the restaurant. The sounds from downstairs had ceased. There was only the rattling noise and the steady, throbbing rumble of the jet engine in the dark outside.

Nick kicked backward like a mule, connecting with Rudy's shin.

"Ow!"

"Belt! Now!"

Rudy dropped clumsily to his knees and moved next to Nick, who was holding Dinah up with one hand and pressing a second tablecloth pad against her back with the other.

"Slip it under the pad," Nick said. He was panting, and sweat was running down his face in wide streams. "Quick! I can't hold her up forever!"

Rudy slid the belt under the pad. Nick lowered Dinah, reached across the girl's small body, and lifted her left shoulder long enough to pull the belt out the other side. Then he looped it over her chest and cinched it tight. He put the belt's free end in Laurel's hand. "Keep the pressure on," he said, standing up. "You can't use the buckle - she's much too small."

"Are you going downstairs?" Laurel asked.

"Yes. That seems indicated."

"Be careful. Please be careful."

He grinned at her, and all those white teeth suddenly shining out in the gloom were startling... but not frightening, she discovered. Quite the opposite.

"Of course. It's how I get along." He reached down and squeezed her shoulder. His hand was warm, and at his touch a little shiver chased through her. "You did very well, Laurel. Thank you."

He began to turn away, and then a small hand groped out and caught the cuff of his blue-jeans. He looked down and saw that Dinah's blind eyes were open again.

"Don't." she began, and then a choked sneezing fit shook her. Blood flew from her nose in a spray of fine droplets.

"Dinah, you mustn't - "

"Don't... you... kill him!" she said, and even in the dark Laurel could sense the fantastic effort she was making to speak at all.

Nick looked down at her thoughtfully. "The bugger stabbed you, you know. Why are you so insistent on keeping him whole?"

Her narrow chest strained against the belt. The bloodstained tablecloth pad heaved. She struggled and managed to say one thing more. They all heard it; Dinah was at great pains to speak clearly. "All... I know... is that we need him," she whispered, and then her eyes closed again.

10

Craig buried the letter-opener fist-deep in the nape of Don Gaffney's neck. Don screamed and dropped the lighter. It struck the floor and lay there, guttering sickishly. Albert shouted in surprise as he saw Craig step toward Don, who was now staggering in the direction of the desk and clawing weakly behind him for the protruding object.

Craig grabbed the opener with one hand and planted his other against Don's back. As he simultaneously pushed and pulled, Albert heard the sound of a hungry man pulling a drumstick off a well-done turkey. Don screamed again, louder this time, and went sprawling over the desk. His arms flew out ahead of him, knocking an IN/OUT box and the stack of lost-luggage forms Craig had been ripping.

Craig turned toward Albert, flicking a spray of blood-droplets from the blade of the letter-opener as he did so. "You're one of them, too," he breathed. "Well, fuck you. I'm going to Boston and you can't stop me. None of you can stop me." Then the lighter on the floor went out and they were in darkness.

Albert took a step backward and felt a warm swoop of air in his face as Craig swung the blade through the spot where he had been only a second before. He flailed behind him with his free hand, terrified of backing into a corner where Craig could use the knife (in the Zippo's pallid, fading light, that was what he had thought it was) on him at will and his own weapon would be useless as well as stupid. His fingers found only empty space, and he backed through the door into the lobby. He did not feel cool; he did not feel like the fastest Hebrew on any side of the Mississippi; he did not feel faster than blue blazes. He felt like a scared kid who had foolishly chosen a childhood playtoy instead of a real weapon because he had been unable to believe - really, really believe - that it could come to this in spite of what the lunatic asshole had done to the little girl upstairs. He could smell himself. Even in the dead air he could smell himself. It was the rancid monkeypiss aroma of fear.

Craig came gliding out through the door with the letter-opener raised. He moved like a dancing shadow in the dark. "I see you, sonny," he breathed. "I see you just like a cat."

He began to slide forward. Albert backed away from him. At the same time he began to pendulum the toaster back and forth, reminding himself that he would have only one good shot before Toomy moved in and planted the blade in his throat or chest.

And if the toaster goes flying out of the goddam pocket before it hits him, I'm a goner.

Craig closed in, weaving the top half of his body from side to side like a snake coming out of a basket. An absent little smile touched the corners of his lips and made small dimples there. That's right, Craig's father said grimly from his undying stronghold inside Craig's head. If you have to pick them off one by one, you can do that. EPO, Craig, remember? EPO. Effort Pays Off.

That's right, Craiggy-weggy, his mother chimed in. You can do it, and you have to do it.

"I'm sorry," Craig murmured to the white-faced boy through his smile. "I'm really, really sorry, but I have to do it. If you could see things from my perspective, you'd understand."

He closed in on Albert, raising the letter-opener to his eyes.

12

Albert shot a quick glance behind him and saw he was backing toward the United Airlines ticket desk. If he retreated much further, the backward are of his swing would be restricted. It had to be soon. He began to pendulum the toaster more rapidly, his sweaty hand clutching the twist of tablecloth.

Craig caught the movement in the dark, but couldn't tell what it was the kid was swinging. It didn't matter. He couldn't let it matter. He gathered himself, then sprang forward.

"I'M GOING TO BOSTON!" he shrieked. "I'M GOING TO - "

Albert's eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he saw Craig make his move. The toaster was on the rearward half of its are. Instead of snapping his wrist forward to reverse its direction, Albert let his arm go with the weight of the toaster, swinging it up and over his head in an exaggerated pitching gesture. At the same time he stepped to the left. The lump at the end of the tablecloth made a short, hard circlet in the air, held firmly in its pocket by centripetal force. Craig cooperated by stepping forward into the toaster's descending arc. It met his forehead and the bridge of his nose with a hard, toneless crunch.

Craig wailed with agony and dropped the letter-opener. His hands went to his face and he staggered backwards. Blood from his broken nose poured between his fingers like water from a busted hydrant. Albert was terrified of what he had done but even more terrified of letting up now that Toomy was hurt. Albert took another step to the left and swung the tablecloth sidearm. It whipped through the air and smashed into the center of Craig's chest with a hard thump. Craig fell over backward, still howling.

For Albert "Ace" Kaussner, only one thought remained; all else was a tumbling, fragmented swirl of color, image, and emotion.

I have to make him stop moving or he'll get up and kill me. I have to make him stop moving or he'll get up and kill me.

At least Toomy had dropped his weapon; it lay glinting on the lobby carpet. Albert planted one of his loafers on it and unloaded with the toaster again. As it came down. Albert bowed from the waist like an old-fashioned butler greeting a member of the royal family. The lump at the end of the tablecloth smashed into Craig Toomy's gasping mouth. There was a sound like glass being crushed inside of a handkerchief.

Oh God, Albert thought. That was his teeth.

Craig flopped and squirmed on the floor. It was terrible to watch him, perhaps more terrible because of the poor light. There was something monstrous and unkillable and insectile about his horrible vitality.

His hand closed upon Albert's loafer. Albert stepped away from the letter-opener with a little cry of revulsion, and Craig tried to grasp it when he did. Between his eyes, his nose was a burst bulb of flesh. He could hardly see Albert at all; his vision was eaten up by a vast white corona of light. A steady high keening note rang in his head, the sound of a TV test-pattern turned up to full volume.

He was beyond doing any more damage, but Albert didn't know it. In a panic, he brought the toaster down on Craig's head again. There was a metallic crunch-rattle as the heating elements inside it broke free.

Craig stopped moving.

Albert stood over him, sobbing for breath, the weighted tablecloth dangling from one hand. Then he took two long, shambling steps toward the escalator bowed deeply again, and vomited on the floor.

13

Brian crossed himself as he thumped back the black plastic shield which covered the screen of the 767's INS video-display terminal, half-expecting it to be smooth and blank. He looked at it closely... and let out a deep sigh of relief.

LAST PROGRAM

COMPLETE,

it informed him in cool blue-green letters, and below that:

NEW PROGRAM? Y N

Brian typed Y, then:

REVERSE

AP29:LAX/LOGAN

The screen went dark for a moment. Then:

INCLUDE DIVERSION IN AP 29? Y N

Brian typed Y.

REVERSE

the screen informed him, and, less than five seconds later:

PROGRAM

COMPLETE

"Captain Engle?"

He turned around. Bethany was standing in the cockpit doorway. She looked pale and haggard in the cabin lights.

"I'm a little busy right now, Bethany."

"Why aren't they back?"

"I can't say."

"I asked Bob - Mr Jenkins - if he could see anyone moving around inside the terminal, and he said he couldn't. What if they're all dead?"

"I'm sure they're not. If it will make you feel better, why don't you join him at the bottom of the ladder? I've got some more work to do here. At least I hope I do."

"Are you scared?" she asked.

"Yes. I sure am."

She smiled a little. "I'm sort of glad. It's bad to be scared all by yourself - totally bogus. I'll leave you alone now."

"Thanks. I'm sure they'll be out soon."

She left. Brian turned back to the INS monitor and typed:

ARE THERE PROBLEMS WITH THIS PROGRAM?

He hit EXECUTE.

NO PROBLEMS. THANK YOU FOR FLYING AMERICAN PRIDE.

"You're welcome, I'm sure," Brian murmured, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Now, he thought, if only the fuel will burn.

14

Bob heard footsteps on the ladder and turned quickly. It was only Bethany, descending slowly and carefully, but he still felt jumpy. The sound coming out of the cast was gradually growing louder.

Closer.

"Hi, Bethany. May I borrow another of your cigarettes?"

She offered the depleted pack to him, then took one herself. She had tucked Albert's book of experimental matches into the cellophane covering the pack, and when she tried one it lit easily.

"Any sign of them?"

"Well, it all depends on what you mean by 'any sign,' I guess," Bob said cautiously. "I think I heard some shouting just before you came down."

"What he had heard actually sounded like screaming - shrieking, not to put too fine a point on it - but he saw no reason to tell the girl that." She looked as frightened as Bob felt, and he had an idea she'd taken a liking to Albert.

"I hope Dinah's going to be all right," she said, "but I don't know. He cut her really bad."

"Did you see the captain?"

Bethany nodded. "He sort of kicked me out. I guess he's programming his instruments, or something."

Bob Jenkins nodded soberly. "I hope so."

Conversation lapsed. They both looked east. A new and even more ominous sound now underlay the crunching, chewing noise: a high, inanimate screaming. It was a strangely mechanical sound, one that made Bob think of an automatic transmission low on fluid.

"It's a lot closer now, isn't it?"

Bob nodded reluctantly. He drew on his cigarette and the glowing ember momentarily illuminated a pair of tired, terrified eyes.

"What do you suppose it is, Mr Jenkins?"

He shook his head slowly. "Dear girl, I hope we never have to find out."

15

Halfway down the escalator, Nick saw a bent-over figure standing in front of the useless bank of pay telephones. It was impossible to tell if it was Albert or Craig Toomy. The Englishman reached into his right front pocket, holding his left hand against it to prevent any jingling, and by touch selected a pair of quarters from his change. He closed his right hand into a fist and slipped the quarters between his fingers, creating a makeshift set of brass knuckles. Then he continued down to the lobby.

The figure by the telephones looked up as Nick appeared. It was Albert. "Don't step in the puke," he said dully.

Nick dropped the quarters back into his pocket and hurried to where the boy was standing with his hands propped above his knees like an old man who has badly overestimated his capacity for exercise. He could smell the high, sour stench of vomit. That and the sweaty stink of fear coming off the boy were smells with which he was all too familiar. He knew them from the Falklands, and even more intimately from Northern Ireland. He put his left arm around the boy's shoulders and Albert straightened very slowly.

"Where are they, Ace?" Nick asked quietly. "Gaffney and Toomy - where are they?"

"Mr Toomy's there." He pointed toward a crumpled shape on the floor. "Mr Gaffney's in the Airport Services office. I think they're both dead. Mr Toomy was in the Airport Services office. Behind the door, I guess. He killed Mr Gaffney because Mr Gaffney walked in first. If I'd walked in first, he would have killed me instead."

Albert swallowed hard.

"Then I killed Mr Toomy. I had to. He came after me, see? He found another knife someplace and he came after me." He spoke in a tone which could have been mistaken for indifference, but Nick knew better. And it was not indifference he saw on the white blur of Albert's face.

"Can you get hold of yourself, Ace?" Nick asked.

"I don't know. I never k-k-killed anyone before, and - " Albert uttered a strangled, miserable sob.

"I know," Nick said. "It's a horrible thing, but it can be gotten over. I know. And you must get over it, Ace. We have miles to go before we sleep, and there's no time for therapy. The sound is louder."

He left Albert and went over to the crumpled form on the floor. Craig Toomy was lying on his side with one upraised arm partially obscuring his face. Nick rolled him onto his back, looked, whistled softly. Toomy was still alive - he could hear the harsh rasp of his breath - but Nick would have bet his bank account that the man was not shamming this time. His nose hadn't just been broken; it looked vaporized. His mouth was a bloody socket ringed with the shattered remains of his teeth. And the deep, troubled dent in the center of Toomy's forehead suggested that Albert had done some creative retooling of the man's skull-plate.

"He did all this with a toaster?" Nick muttered. "Jesus and Mary, Tom, Dick and Harry." He got up and raised his voice. "He's not dead, Ace."

Albert had bent over again when Nick left him. Now he straightened slowly and took a step toward him. "He's not?"

"Listen for yourself. Out for the count, but still in the game." Not for long, though; not by the sound of him. "Let's check on Mr Gaffney - maybe he got off lucky, too. And what about the stretcher?"

"Huh?" Albert looked at Nick as though he had spoken in a foreign language.

"The stretcher," Nick repeated patiently as they walked toward the open Airport Services door.

"We found it," Albert said.

"Did you? Super!"

Albert stopped just inside the door. "Wait a minute," he muttered, then squatted and felt around for Don's lighter. He found it after a moment or two. It was still warm. He stood up again. "Mr Gaffney's on the other side of the desk, I think."

They walked around, stepping over the tumbled stacks of paper and the IN/OUT basket. Albert held the lighter and flicked the wheel. On the fifth try the wick caught and burned feebly for three or four seconds. It was enough. Nick had actually seen enough in the spark-flashes the lighter's wheel had struck, but he hadn't liked to say so to Albert. Don Gaffney lay sprawled on his back, eyes open, a look of terrible surprise still fixed on his face. He hadn't gotten off lucky after all.

"How was it that Toomy didn't get you as well?" Nick asked after a moment. "I knew he was in here," Albert said. "Even before he struck Mr Gaffney, I knew." His voice was still dry and shaky, but he felt a little better. Now that he had actually faced poor Mr Gaffney - looked him in the eye, so to speak - he felt a little better.

"Did you hear him?"

"No - I saw those. On the desk." Albert pointed to the little heap of torn strips.

"Lucky you did." Nick put his hand on Albert's shoulder in the dark. "You deserve to be alive, mate. You earned the privilege. All right?"

"I'll try," Albert said.

"You do that, old son. It saves a lot of nightmares. You're looking at a man who knows."

Albert nodded.

"Keep it together, Ace. That's all there is to it - just keep things together and you'll be fine."

"Mr Hopewell?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind not calling me that? I - " His voice clogged, and Albert cleared his throat violently. "I don't think I like it anymore."

16

They emerged from the dark cave which was Airport Services thirty seconds later, Nick carrying the folded stretcher by the handle. When they reached the bank of phones, Nick handed the stretcher to Albert, who accepted it wordlessly. The tablecloth lay on the floor about five feet away from Toomy, who was snoring now in great rhythmless snatches of air.

Time was short, time was very fucking short, but Nick had to see this. He had to.

He picked up the tablecloth and pulled the toaster out. One of the heating elements caught in a bread slot; the other tumbled out onto the floor. The timer-dial and the handle you used to push the bread down fell off. One corner of the toaster was crumpled inward. The left side was bashed into a deep circular dent.

That's the part that collided with Friend Toomy's sniffer, Nick thought. Amazing. He shook the toaster and listened to the loose rattle of broken parts inside.

"A toaster," he marvelled. "I have friends, Albert - professional friends - who wouldn't believe it. I hardly believe it myself. I mean... a toaster."

Albert had turned his head. "Throw it away," he said hoarsely. "I don't want to look at it."

Nick did as the boy asked, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Take the stretcher upstairs. I'll join you directly."

"What are you going to do?"

"I want to see if there's anything else we can use in that office."

Albert looked at him for a moment, but he couldn't make out Nick's features in the dark. At last he said, "I don't believe you."

"Nor do you have to," Nick said in an oddly gentle voice. "Go on, Ace. Albert, I mean. I'll join you soon. And don't look back."

Albert stared at him a moment longer, then began to trudge up the frozen escalator, his head down, the stretcher dangling like a suitcase from his right hand. He didn't look back.

17

Nick waited until the boy had disappeared into the gloom. Then he walked back over to where Craig Toomy lay and squatted beside him. Toomy was still out, but his breathing seemed a little more regular. Nick supposed it was not impossible, given a week or two of constant-care treatment in hospital, that Toomy might recover. He had proved at least one thing: he had an awesomely hard head.

Shame the brains underneath are so soft, mate, Nick thought. He reached out, meaning to put one hand over Toomy's mouth and the other over his nose - or what remained of it. It would take less than a minute, and they would not have to worry about Mr Craig Toomy anymore. The others would have recoiled in horror at the act - would have called it cold-blooded murder - but Nick saw it as an insurance policy, no more and no less. Toomy had arisen once from what appeared to be total unconsciousness and now one of their number was dead and another was badly, perhaps mortally, wounded. There was no sense taking the same chance again.

And there was something else. If he left Toomy alive, what, exactly, would he be leaving him alive for? A short, haunted existence in a dead world? A chance to breathe dying air under a moveless sky in which all weather patterns appeared to have ceased? An opportunity to meet whatever was approaching from the east... approaching with a sound like that of a colony of giant, marauding ants?

No. Best to see him out of it. It would be painless, and that would have to be good enough.

"Better than the bastard deserves," Nick said, but still he hesitated.

He remembered the little girl looking up at him with her dark, unseeing eyes.

Don't you kill him! Not a plea; that had been a command. She had summoned up a little strength from some hidden last reserve in order to give him that command. All I know is that we need him.

Why is she so bloody protective of him?

He squatted a moment longer, looking into Craig Toomy's ruined face. And when Rudy Warwick spoke from the head of the escalator, he jumped as if it had been the devil himself.

"Mr Hopewell? Nick? Are you coming?"

"In a jiffy!" he called back over his shoulder. He reached toward Toomy's face again and stopped again, remembering her dark eyes.

We need him.

Abruptly he stood up, leaving Craig Toomy to his tortured struggle for breath. "Coming now," he called, and ran lightly up the escalator.