"Because it would take at least forty minutes for the stuff to work... and I strongly doubt it would work on everyone. The natural reaction of minds under stress to such medication is to fight - to try to refuse it. There is absolutely no way to combat such a reaction, Nick... you might as well try to legislate your own heartbeat. What you'd do, always supposing you found a supply of medication large enough to allow it, would be to administer a series of lethal overdoses and turn the plane into Jonestown. We might all come through, but we'd be dead."
"Forty minutes," Nick said. "Christ. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes," Bob said unflinchingly.
Brian looked out at the glowing lozenge shape in the sky. He had put Flight 29 into a circling pattern and the rip was on the verge of disappearing again. It would be back shortly... but they would be no closer to it.
"I can't believe it," Nick said heavily. "To go through the things we've gone through... to have taken off successfully and come all this way... to have actually found the bloody thing... and then we find out we can't go through it and back to our own time just because we can't go to sleep?"
"We don't have forty minutes, anyway," Brian said quietly. "If we waited that long, this plane would crash sixty miles east of the airport."
"Surely there are other fields - "
"There are, but none big enough to handle an airplane of this size."
"If we went through and then turned back east again?"
"Vegas. But Vegas is going to be out of reach in..." Brian glanced at his instruments. "... less than eight minutes. I think it has to be LAX. I'll need at least thirty-five minutes to get there. That's cutting it extremely fine even if they clear everything out of our way and vector us straight in. That gives us..." He looked at the chronometer again. "... twenty minutes at most to figure this thing out and get through the hole."
Bob was looking thoughtfully at Nick. "What about you?" he asked.
"What do you mean, what about me?"
"I think you're a soldier... but I don't think you're an ordinary one. Might you be SAS, perhaps?"
Nick's face tightened. "And if I was that or something like it, mate?"
"Maybe you could put us to sleep," Bob said. "Don't they teach you Special Forces men tricks like that?"
Brian's mind flashed back to Nick's first confrontation with Craig Toomy. Have you ever watched Star Trek? he had asked Craig. Marvellous American program... And if you don't shut your gob at once, you bloody idiot, I'll be happy to demonstrate Mr Spock's famous Vulcan sleeper-hold for you.
"What about it, Nick?" he said softly. "If we ever needed the famous Vulcan sleeper-hold, it's now."
Nick looked unbelievingly from Bob to Brian and then back to Bob again. "Please don't make me laugh, gents - it makes my arm hurt worse."
"What does that mean?" Bob asked.
"I've got my sedatives all wrong, have I? Well, let me tell you both that you've got it all wrong about me. I am not James Bond. There never was a James Bond in the real world. I suppose I might be able to kill you with a neck-chop, Bob, but I'd more likely just leave you paralyzed for life. Might not even knock you out. And then there's this." Nick held up his rapidly swelling right arm with a little wince. "My smart hand happens to be attached to my recently re-broken arm. I could perhaps defend myself with my left hand - against an unschooled opponent - but the kind of thing you're talking about? No. No way."
"You're all forgetting the most important thing of all," a new voice said.
They turned. Laurel Stevenson, white and haggard, was standing in the cockpit door. She had folded her arms across her breasts as if she was cold and was cupping her elbows in her hands.
"If we're all knocked out, who is going to fly the plane?" she asked. "Who is going to fly the plane into LA?"
The three men gaped at her wordlessly. Behind them, unnoticed, the large semi-precious stone that was the time-rip glided into view again.
"We're fucked," Nick said quietly. "Do you know that? We are absolutely dead-out fucked." He laughed a little, then winced as his stomach jogged his broken arm.
"Maybe not," Albert said. He and Bethany had appeared behind