of other people have disappeared as well... but logic suggests that other people must be around somewhere. We survived whatever-it-was, so others must have survived it as well."
Bob Jenkins, the mystery writer, whispered something under his breath. Albert heard him but could not make out the words. He half-turned in Jenkins's direction just as the writer muttered the two words again. This time Albert caught them. They were false logic.
"The best way to deal with this, I think, is to take things one step at a time. Step one is exiting the plane."
"I bought a ticket to Boston," Craig Toomy said in a calm, rational voice. "Boston is where I want to go."
Nick stepped out from behind Brian's shoulder. Craig glanced at him and his eyes narrowed. For a moment he looked like a bad-tempered housecat again. Nick raised one hand with the fingers curled in against his palm and scissored two of his knuckles together in a nose-pinching gesture. Craig Toomy, who had once been forced to stand with a lit match between his toes while his mother sang "Happy Birthday," got the message at once. He had always been a quick study. And he could wait.
"We'll have to use the emergency slide," Brian said, "so I want to review the procedures with you. Listen carefully, then form a single-file line and follow me to the front of the aircraft."
7
Four minutes later, the forward entrance of American Pride's Flight 29 swung inward. Some murmured conversation drifted out of the opening and seemed to fall immediately dead on the cool, still air. There was a hissing sound and a large clump of orange fabric suddenly bloomed in the doorway. For a moment it looked like a strange hybrid sunflower. It grew and took shape as it fell, its surface inflating into a plump ribbed slide. As the foot of the slide struck the tarmac there was a low pop! and then it just leaned there, looking like a giant orange air mattress.
Brian and Nick stood at the head of the short line in the portside row of first class.
"There's something wrong with the air out there," Nick said in a low voice.
"What do you mean?" Brian asked. He pitched his voice even lower.
"Poisoned?"
"No... at least I don't think so. But it has no smell, no taste."
"You're nuts," Brian said uneasily.
"No I'm not," Nick said. "This is an airport, mate, not a bloody hayfield, but can you smell oil or gas? I can't."
Brian sniffed. And there was nothing. If the air was poisoned - he didn't believe it was, but if - it was a slow-acting toxin. His lungs seemed to be processing it just fine. But Nick was right. There was no smell. And that other, more elusive, quality that the Brit had called taste... that wasn't there, either. The air outside the open door tasted utterly neutral. It tasted canned.
"Is something wrong?" Bethany Simms asked anxiously. "I mean, I'm not sure if I really want to know if there is, but - "
"There's nothing wrong," Brian said. He counted heads, came up with ten, and turned to Nick again. "That guy in the back is still asleep. Do you think we should wake him up?"
Nick thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Let's not. Haven't we got enough problems for now without having to play nursemaid to a bloke with a hangover?"
Brian grinned. They were his thoughts exactly. "Yes, I think we do. All right - you go down first, Nick. Hold the bottom of the slide. I'll help the rest off."
"Maybe you'd better go first. In case my loudmouthed friend decides to cut up rough about the unscheduled stop again." He pronounced unscheduled as un-shed-youled.
Brian glanced at the man in the crew-necked jersey. He was standing at the rear of the line, a slim monogrammed briefcase in one hand, staring blankly at the ceiling. His face had all the expression of a department-store dummy. "I'm not going to have any trouble with him," he said, "because I don't give a crap what he does. He can go or stay, it's all the same to me."
Nick grinned. "Good enough for me, too. Let the grand exodus begin."
"Shoes off?"
Nick held up a pair of black kidskin loafers.
"Okay - away you go." Brian turned to Bethany. "Watch closely, miss you're next."
"Oh God - I hate shit like this."
Bethany nevertheless crowded up beside Brian and watched apprehensively as Nick Hopewell addressed