ready, no one will come close." Demerest was calculating: If Guerrero's attention could be held long enough, the aisle might be cleared. After that, Demerest would try to persuade Guerrero to hand over the case. If he refused, there was still a chance that Demerest could leap forward, throw himself bodily onto Guerrero and wrest the case free before the trigger could be used. It would be a tremendous risk, but there was nothing better.
People were easing nervously back into their seats.
"Now that I've told you what we know, Guerrero; now you know that it isn't any good going on, I'm asking you to give me that case." Demerest tried to keep his tone reasonable, sensing it was important to keep talking. "If you do as I say, I give you my solemn word that no one in this airplane will harm you."
D. O. Guerrero's eyes mirrored fear. He moistened thin lips with his tongue. Gwen Meighen was closest to him.
Demerest said quietly, "Gwen, take it easy. Try to get in a seat," If he had to leap, he wanted no one in the way.
Behind Guerrero the door of the occupied toilet opened. An owlish young man with thick glasses came out. He stopped, peering short-sightedly. Obviously he had heard nothing of what was going on.
Another passenger yelled, "Grab the guy with the case! He's got a bomb!"
At the first "click" of the toilet door, Guerrero half turned. Now he lunged, thrusting the man with glasses aside, and entered the toilet which the newcomer had vacated.
As Guerrero moved, Gwen Meighen moved too, remaining close behind him. Vernon Demerest, several yards away, was struggling fiercely aft, down the still crowded aisle.
The toilet door was closing as Gwen reached it. She thrust a foot inside and shoved. Her foot stopped the door from closing, but the door refused to move. Despairing, as pain shot through her foot, she could feel Guerrero's weight against the other side.
In D. O. Guerrero's mind the last few minutes bad been a jumbled blur. He had not fully comprehended everything that had occurred, nor had he heard all that Demerest said. But one thing penetrated. He realized that like so many of his other grand designs, this one, too, had failed. Somewhere---as always happened with whatever he attempted---he had bungled. All his life had been a failure. With bitterness, he knew his death would be a failure too.
His back was braced against the inside of the toilet door. He felt pressure on it, and knew that at any moment the pressure would increase so that he could no longer hold the door closed. Desperately be fumbled with the attache case, reaching for the string beneath the handle which would release the square of plastic, actuating the clothespin switch and detonating the dynamite inside. Even as he found the string and tugged, he wondered if the bomb be had made would be a failure also.
In his last split second of life and comprehension, D. O. Guerrero learned that it was not.
PART THREE Chapter Ten
THE EXPLOSION aboard Trans America Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, was instantaneous, monstrous, and overwhelming. In the airplane's confined space it struck with the din of a hundred thunderclaps, a sheet of flame, and a blow like a giant sledge hammer.
D. O. Guerrero died instantly, his body, near the core of the explosion, disintegrating utterly. One moment he existed; the next, there were only a few small, bloody pieces of him left.
The aircraft fuselage blew open.
Gwen Meighen, who, next to Guerrero, was nearest the explosion, received its force in her face and chest.
An instant after the dynamite charge ripped the aircraft skin, the cabin decompressed. With a second roar and tornado force, air inside the aircraft---until this moment maintained at normal pressure---swept through the ruptured fuselage to dissipate in the high altitude near-vacuum outside. Through the passenger cabins a dark engulfing cloud of dust surged toward the rear. With it, like litter in a maelstrom, went every loose object, light and heavy---papers, food trays, liquor bottles, coffeepots, hand luggage, clothing, passengers' belongings---all whirling through the air as if impelled toward a cyclopean vacuum cleaner. Curtains tore away. Internal doors---flight deck, storage, and toilets---wrenched free from locks and hinges and were swept rearward with the rest.
Several passengers were struck. Others, not strapped in their seats, clung to any handhold as the wind and suction drew them inexorably toward the rear.
Throughout the aircraft, emergency compartments above each seat snapped open. Yellow oxygen masks came tumbling down, each