Nightmare at twenty thousand feet by Richard Matheson. Seatbelt, please, said the
steward as cheerfully as she passed him. Almost as she spoke, the sign
above the archway which led to the forward compartment lit up. Fastened seatbelt with
below its attendant caution no smoking. Drawing in a deep lungfull Wilson excelled it
in baste, then pressed the cigarette into the armrest tray with irritable stabbing motions.
Outside, one of the engines coughed monstrously, spewing out a cloud of
fume, which fragmented into the night air. The fuselage began to shudder,
and Wilson, glancing through the window, saw the exhaust of flame jetting whitely
from the engines in the cell. The second engine coughed, then roared its
propeller instantly a blare of revolution with a tense submissiveness. Wilson fastened the belt
across his lap. Now all the engines were running, and Wilson's head throbbed
in unison with the fuselage. He sat rigidly staring at the seat ahead as
the D seven taxied across the apron, heating the night with the thundering blast
of its exhausts. At the edge of the runway, it halted. Wilson
looked out through the window at the leviath and glitter of the terminal. By
late morning, he thought, showered and cleanly dressed, he would be sitting
in the office of one more contact, discussing one more specious deal, the
net result of which would not add one jot of meaning to the history of
mankind. It was all so damned. Wilson gasped as the engines began their
warm up race preparatory to take off. The sound, already loud, became
deafening, waves of sound that crashed against Wilson's ears like club blows. He
opened his mouth as if to let it drain. His eyes took on the
glare of a suffering man. His hands drew in like tensing claws. He
started, legs retracting as he felt a touch on his arm. Jerking aside
his head, he saw the stewardess who had met him at the door.
She was smiling down at him. Are you all right? He barely made
out her words. Wilson pressed his lips together and agitated his hand at her,
as if pushing her away. His smile flared into excess brightness, then
fell as she turned and moved away. The plane began to move a face
lethargically like some behemos, struggling to overthrow the pull of its own weight,
then with more speed, forcing off the drag of friction. Wilson, turning
to the window, saw the dark runway rushing past fire, faster and faster.
On the wing edge, there was a mechanical whining as the flaps descended,
then imperceptibly, the giant wheels lost contact with the ground. The earth
began to fall away. Trees flashed underneath buildings, the darting quicksilver of carlights.
The DC seven banked slowly to the right, pulling itself upward toward the
frosty glitter of the stars. Finally, it leveled off, and the engine
seemed to stop until Wilson's adjusting ear cut the murmur of their cruising speed.
A moment of relief slackened his muscles, imparting a sense of well being.
Then it was gone. Wilson sat a mobile, staring at the no smoking
sign until that winked out, then quickly lit a cigarette, reaching into the
seat back pocket in front of him, he slid free his newspaper. As
usual, the world was in a state similar to his friction in diplomatic circles,
earthquakes and gunfire, murder, rape, tornadoes and collisions, business conflicts,
gangsterism. God's in his heaven, All's right with the world, thought
Arthur Jeffrey Wilson. Fifteen minutes later, he tossed the paper aside. His
stomach felt awful. He glanced up at the signs beside the two lavatories,
both illuminated read occupied. He pressed out his stated cigarette since take off and
turning off the overhead light stared out through the window. Along the cabin's length,
people were already flicking out their lights and reclining their chairs for sleep.
Wilson glanced at his watch, eleven twenty. He blew out tired breath.
As he'd anticipated, the pills he'd taken before boarding hadn't done a bit of
good. He stood abruptly as the woman came out of the lavatory, and
snatching up his bag, he started down the aisle. His system, as
expected, gave no co operation. Wilson stood with a tired moan and adjusted
his clothing. Having washed his hands and face. He removed the toilet kit
from the bag and squeezed a filament of paste across his tooth brush. As
he brushed, one hand braced for support against the cold bulkhead. He looked
out through the feet Away was the pale blue of the inboard propeller. Wilson
visualized what would happen if it were to tear loose and like a tribe bladed
cleaver come slicing at him. There was a sudden depression in his stomach.
Wilson swallowed instinctively and got some past stains saliva down his throat. Gagging,
he turned and spat into the sink, then hastily washed out his mouth and
took a drink. Dear God, if only he could have gone by train,
had his own compartment, taken a casual stroll to the club bar,
settled down in an easy chair with a drink in a magazine. But there
was no such time or fortune in this world. He was about to put
the toilet kit away when his gaze caught on the all skin envelope in the
bag he had. Then, setting the small briefcase on the sink, drew
out the envelope and undid it on his lap. He sat, staring at
the ore gloss symmetry of the pistol. He'd carried it around with him for
almost a year now. Originally, when he'd thought about it, it was
in terms of money, carried protection from hold up, safety from teenage gangs
in cities he had to attend. Yet far beneath he'd always known there was
no valid reason except one, a reason he thought of more every day.
How simple it would be here now. Wilson shut his eyes and swallowed quickly.
He could still taste the toothpaste in his mouth, a faint nettling of
peppermint on the boyds. He sat heavily in the throbbing chill of the lavatory,
the oily gun resting in his hands, until quite suddenly he began to
shiver without control. God, let me go, his mind cried out,
abruptly, let me go, Let me go. He barely recognized the whimpering
in his ears. Abruptly, Wilson sat erect, lips pressed together. He
re wrapped the pistol and thrust it into his bag, putting the briefcase on
top of it, zipping the bag shut. Standing, he opened the door
and stepped outside hurrying to his seat and sitting down, sliding the overnight bag
precisely into place, he indented the armrest button and pushed himself back. He
was a business man, and there was business to be conducted on the morrow.
It was as simple as that. The body needed sleep. He would
give it sleep. Twenty minutes later, Wilson reached down slowly and depressed the
button, sitting up with his chair, his face a mask of vanquished acceptance.
Why fight it, he thought it was obvious he was going to stay
awake. So that was that. He had finished half of the crossword puzzle
before he let the paper drop into his lap. His eyes were too tired.
Sitting up, he rotated his shoulders, stretching the muscles of his back.
Now what he thought? He didn't want to read? He couldn't sleep,
and there was still He checked his watch. Seven to eight hours left
before Los Angeles was reached. How was he to spend them? He looked
along the cabin and saw that except for a single passenger in the forward compartment,
every one was asleep. A sudden, overwhelming fury filled him, and
he wanted to scream, to throw something, to hit somebody teeth jammed together
so rapidly it hit his jaws. Wilson shoved aside the catns with a spastic
hand and stayed out majeously through the window. Outside, he saw the wing
lights blinking off and on, the lerid flashes of exhaust from the engine cowlings.
Here he was, he thought, twenty thousand feet above the earth,
trapped in a howling shell of death, moving through polar night toward Wilson twitched
as lightning bleached the sky, washing its false daylight across the win He swallowed.
Was there going to be a storm? The thought of rain and heavy
winds of the plane a chip in the sea of sky was not a pleasant
one. Wilson was a bad flier. Excess motion always made him ill.
Maybe he should have taken another few drama means to be on the safe side.
And naturally his seat was next to the emergency door. He thought about
it opening accidentally, about himself sucked from the plane, falling screaming. Wilson
blinked and shook his head. There was a faint tingling at the back of
his neck as he pressed close to the window and stared out. He sat
there, motionless, squinting he could have sworn. Suddenly, his stomach muscles
jerked in violently, and he felt his eyes strained forward. There was something
crawling on the wing. Wilson felt a sudden nauseous tremor in his stomach.
Thee god had some dog or cat crawled onto the plane before takeoff, and
in some way managed to hold on. It was a sickening thought. The
poor animal would be deranged with terror. Yet, how on the smooth,
wind blasted surface could it possibly discover gripping places? Surely that was impossible.
Perhaps, after all, it was only a beard or The lightning flared and
Wilson saw that it was a man. He couldn't move. Stupefied, he
watched the black form crawling down the wing, impossible Somewhere cased in lays of
shock, A voice declared itself, but Wilson did not hear. He was
conscious of nothing but the Titanic, almost muscle tearing, the leap of his
heart and of the man outside. Suddenly, like ice filled water thrown across
him, there was a reaction. His mind sprang for the shelter of explanation.
A mechanic had, through some incredible oversight, been taken up with the
ship and had managed to cling to it, even though the wind had torn
his clothes away, Even though the air was thin and close to freezing,
Wilson gave himself no time for refutation. Jarring to his feet, he shouted,
Stewardess, Stewardess, his voice a hollow, ringing sound in the cabin.
He pushed the button for her with a jabbing finger. Stewardess, She
came running down the aisle, her face tightened with alarm. When she saw
the look on his face. She stiffened in her tra There's a man out
there, A man, cried Wilson. What skin constricted on her cheeks around
her eyes? Look look and shaking. Wilson dropped back into his seat and
pointed out the window. He's crawling on the word. It's ended with a
choking rattle in his throat. There was nothing on the wing. Wilson sat
there, trembling for a while before he turned back. He looked at the
reflection of the stewardess on the window. There was a blank expression on her
face. At last, he turned and looked up at her. He saw
her red lips part as though she meant to speak, but she said nothing,
only placing the lips together again and swallowing an attempted smile, distended briefly
at her features. I'm sorry, Wilson said, it must have been a
He stopped as though the sentence were completed. Across the aisle, a teenage
girl was gaping at him with sleepy curiosity. The stewardess cleared her throat.
Can I get you anything, she asked? A glass of water, Wilson
said. The stewardess turned and moved back up the aisle. Wilson sucked in
a long breath of air and turned away from the young girl's scrutiny. He
felt the same. That was the thing that shucked him most. Where were
the visions, the cries, the pummeling of fists on temples, the tearing
out of hair. Abruptly, he closed his eyes. There had been a
man, he thought, there had actually been a man. That's why he
felt the same. And yet they couldn't have been He knew that clearly.
Wilson sat with eyes closed, wondering what Jacqueline would be doing now if she
were in the seat beside him. Would she be silent, shocked beyond speaking,
or would she in the more accepted manner be fluttering around him, smiling,
chattering, pretending that she hadn't seen What would his sons think. Wilson
felt a dry sob threatening in his chest. Oh God, here's your water,
sair twitching sharply. Wilson opened his eyes. Would you like a blanket,
inquired the stewardess. No, he shook his head. Thank you,
he added, wondering why he was being so polite. If you need anything,
just ring, she said. Wilson nodded behind him as he sat with
the untouched cup of water in his hand. He heard the muted voices of
the stewardess in one of the passengers. Wilson tightened with resentment. Abruptly,
he reached down, and, careful not to spill the water, pulled out
the overnight bag, unzipping it. He removed a box of sleeping capsules and
washed two of them down. Crumpling the empty cup, he pushed it into
the seat pocket in front of him, then, not looking, slid the
cat and shut there. It was ended. One hallucination didn't make insanity.
Wilson turned on to his right side and tried to set himself up against the
fitful motion of the ship. He had to forget about this, That was
the most important thing. He mustn't dwell on it. Unexpectedly, he found
a wry smile forming on his lips. Well, by God, no one
could accuse him of mundane hallucinations anyway. When he went at it, he
did a royal job and naked mind. Crawling down a D seven's winger twenty
thousand feet there was a chimera worthy of the noblest lunatic. The humor faded
quickly. Wilson felt chilled. It had been so clear, so vivid.
How could the eyes see such a thing when it did not exist? How
could what was in his mind make the physical act of seeing worked at its
purpose so complete? He hadn't been groggy in a daze, Nor had it
been a shapeless, gauzy vision. It had been sharply three dimensional, fully
a part of the things he saw which he knew were real. That was
the frightening part of it. It had not been dreamlike in the least.
He had looked at the wing, and impulsively Wilson drew aside the cairtain.
He did not know immediately if he would survive. It seemed as if all
the contents of his chest and stomach were bloating horribly, the excess pushing up
in his throat and head, choking away, breath, pressing out his eyes.
Imprisoned in this swollen mass, his heart pulsed strickenly, threatening to burst
its case. As Wilson sat pared, only inches away, separated from him
by the thickness of a piece of glass, the man was staring at him.
It was a hideously malignant face, a face not humor. Its skin
was grimy of a wide, poured coarseness, its nose a squat, discolored
lump, Its lips cracked, forced apart by teeth of a grotesque size and
crookedness. Its eyes recessed and small, unblinking, all framed by shaggy,
tangled hair, which sprouted two in fairy tufts from the man's ears and nose,
beared like down across his cheeks. Wilson sat riven to his chair,
incapable of response. Time stopped and lost, meaning, function and analysis ceased.
All were frozen in an ice of shock. Only the beat of heart
went on alone, a frantic leaping into the darkness. Wilson could not so
much as blink. Dull eyed breathless, he returned the creature's vacant stare abruptly.
Then he closed his eyes, and his mind, rid of the sight,
broke free. It isn't there, he thought. He pressed his teeth
together, breath quavering in his nostrils. It isn't there. It simply is
not there. Clutching at the armrest with pale knuckled fingers, Wilson braced himself.
There is no man out there, he told himself. It was impossible
that there should be a man out there, crouching on the wing looking at
him. He opened his eyes to shrink against the seat back with a gagging
inhalation. Not only was the man still there, but he was grinning.
Wilson turned his fingers in and dug the nails into his palms until pain flared.
He kept it there until there was no doubt in his mind that he
was fully conscious. Then slowly, arm quivering and numb, Wilson reached up
for the button which would summon the stewardess. He would not make the same
mistake again, cry out, leaped to his feet, alarm the creature into
flight. He kept reaching upward a tremor of a ghast excitement in his muscles.
Now, because the man was watching him, the small eyes shifting with
the movement of his arm. He pressed the button carefully once twice. Now
come, he thought, Come with your objective eyes and see what I see.
But hurry. In the rear of the cabin, he heard a curtain
being drawn aside, and suddenly his body stiffened. The man had turned his
caliban head to look in that direction. Paralyzed, Wilson stared at him.
Hurry, he thought, for God's sake, hurry. It was over in
a second. The man's eyes shifted back to Wilson across his lips a smile
of monstrous cunning. Then with a leap, he was gone, Yes,
sir. For a moment, Wilson suffered the fullest anguish of madness. His
gaze kept jumping from the spot where the man had stood to the stewardess's questioning
face, then back again, back to the stewardess, to the wing,
to the stewardess. His breath caught his eyes stark with dismay. What is
it? Asked the stewardess. It was the look on her face that did
it. Wilson closed a vice on his emotions. She couldn't possibly believe him.
He realized it in an instant. I'm I'm sorry, he faltered.
He swallowed so dryly that it made a clicking noise in his throat. It's
nothing, I apologize. The stewardess obviously didn't know what to say. She
kept leaning against the erratic yawing of the ship, one hand holding onto the
back of the seat beside Wilson's, the other staring limply along the seam of
her skirt. Her lips were parted slightly, as if she meant to speak
but could not find the ways well. She said finally, and cleared her
throat. If you need anything, yes, yes, thank you. Are
we going into a storm? The stewardess smiled hastily, just a small one,
she said, nothing to worry about. Wilson nodded with little twitching movements.
Then, as the stewardess turned away, breathed in suddenly, his nostrils
flaring. He felt certain that she already thought him mad, but didn't know
what to do about it, because in a course of training there had been
no instruction of the handling of passengers. We thought they saw small men crouching
on wing, thought Wilson turned his head abruptly and looked outside. He stared
at the dark rise of the wing, the spouting flare of the exhausts,
the blinking lights. He'd seen the man to that, he'd swear, How
could he be completely aware of everything around him, being always sane and still
imagined such a thing. Was it logical that the mind in giving way should,
instead of distorting all reality, insert within the still intact arrangement of details,
one extraneous sight. No, not logical at all. Suddenly Wilson thought
about the war, about the newspaper stories which recounted the alleged existence of creatures
in the sky who plagued the ally pilots in their duties. They called them
gremlins. He remembered, were there actually such beings? Did they truly exist
up here? Never falling, riding on the wind, apparently of bulk and
weight, yet impervious to gravity. He was thinking that when the man appeared
again. One second the wing was empty, the next, with an arcing
descent, the man came jumping down to it. There seemed no impact.
He landed almost fragilely, short, hairy arms outstretched as if for balance.
Wilson tensed. Yes, there was knowledge in his look the man. Was
he to think of it as a man? Somehow understood that he had tricked
Wilson into calling them stewardess in vain. Wilson felt himself tremble with alarm.
How could he prove the man's existence to others? He looked around desperately that
girl across the aisle. If he spoke to her softly, woke her up,
would she be able to know? The man would jump away before she
could see, probably to the top of the fuselage where no one could see
him, not even the pilots in their cockpit. Wilson felt a sudden burst
of self condemnation that he hadn't got that camera Walter had asked for, Dear
Lord, he thought to be able to take a picture of the man.
He leaned in close to the window. What was the man doing? Abruptly
darkness seemed to leap away as the wing was chalked with lightning, and Wilson
saw, like an inquisitive child, the man was squatted on the hitching wing
edge, stretching out his right hand towards one of the wailing propellers. As
Wilson watched fascinatingly appalled, The man's hand drew closed and closer to the blaring
gyre, until suddenly it jerked away, and the man's lips twitched back in
a soulless cry. He's lost a finger, Wilson thought, sickened, But
immediately the man reached forward again. Gnalled finger extended the picture of some monstrous
infant trying to capture the spin of a fan blade. If it had not
been so hideously out of place, it would have been amusing for objectively seen,
the man at that moment was a comic sight, a fairy tale troll,
somehow come to life, wind whipping at the hair across his head and
body, all of his attention centered on the turn of the propeller. How
could this be madness? Wilson suddenly thought, what self revelation could this farcical
little horror possibly bestow on him? Again and again, as Wilson watched,
the man reached forward again and again jerked back his fingers, sometimes actually putting
them in his mouth as if to cool them, and always apparently checking.
He kept glancing back across his shoulder, looking at Wilson. He knows,
thought, Wilson knows that this is again between us. If I am able
to get someone else to see him, then he loses. If I'm the
only witness, then he wins. The sense of faint amusement was gone.
Now, Wilson clenched his teeth. Why in hell didn't the pilot see now?
The man, no longer interested in the propeller, was settling himself across
the engine, cowling like a man astride a bucking horse. Wilson stared at
him. Abruptly, a shudder plattered down his back. The little man was
picking at the plate that sheathed the engine, trying to get his nails beneath
them. Impulsively, Wilson reached up and pushed the button for the stewardess in
the rear of the cabin. He heard her coming, and for a second
thought he'd fooled the man, who seemed absorbed in his efforts at the last
moment. However, just before the stewardess arrived, the man glanced over at
Wilson. Then, like a marionette jerked upward from its stage by wires,
he was flying up into the air. Yes, she looked at him apprehensively.
Will you sit down, please, he asked? She hesitated, Well,
I please. She sat down gingerly on the seat beside his What is
it, mister Wilson, she asked. He braced himself. That man is
still outside, he said. The stewardess stared at him. The reason I'm
telling you this, Wilson hurried on, is that he's starting to tamper with
one of the engines. She turned her eyes instinctively towards the window. No,
no, don't look, he told her. He isn't there now,
he cleared his throatly. He jumps away whenever you come here. A sudden
nausea gripped him as he realized what you must be thinking. As he realized
what he himself would think if someone told him such a story, A wave
of dizziness seemed to pass across him, and he thought, I am going
mad. The point is this, he said, fighting off the thought.
If I am not imagining this thing, the ship is in danger. Yes,
she said, I know, he said. You think I've lost my
mind? Of course not, she said. All I ask is this,
he said, struggling against the rise of anger. Tell the pilot what I've
said. Ask them to keep an eye on the wings. If they see
nothing, All right, But if they do. The stewardess sat there quietly
looking at him. Wilson's hands curled into fists that trembled in his lap.
Well, he asked, She pushed to her feet. I'll tell them,
she said, turning away. She moved along the aisle with a movement that
was, to Wilson poorly contrived, too fast to be normal, yet clearly
held back as if to reassure him that she wasn't fleeing. He felt his
stomach chaining as he looked out at the wing again. Abruptly, the man
appeared again, landing on the wing like some grotesque ballet dancer. Wilson watched
them as he set to wake again, straddling the engine casing with his thick,
bare legs and picking at the plates. Well what was he so concerned
about, thought Wilson. That miserable creature couldn't pry up rivets with his fingernails.
Actually, it didn't matter if the pilot saw him or not, at
least as far as the safety of the plane was concerned. As for his
own personal reasons. It was at that moment that the man pried up one
edge of a plate. Wilson gasped. Here Quickly, he shouted, noticing
up ahead the stewardess and the pilot coming through the cockpit doorway. The pilot's
eyes jerked up to look at Wilson. Then abruptly he was pushing past the
stewardess and lanching up the aisle. Hurry, Wilson cried. He glanced at
the window in time to see the mango leaping upward. That didn't matter,
now there would be evidence. What's going on, the pilot asked, stopping
breathlessly beside his seat. He's torn up one of the engine plates, said
Wilson, in a shaking voice. He's what the man outside, said Wilson.
I tell you, he's mister Wilson. Keep your voice down, ordered
the pilot. Wilson's jaw went slack. I don't know what's going on here,
said the pilot, But will you look, shouted Wilson. Mister Wilson,
I'm warning you, for God's sake. Wilson swallowed quickly, trying to
repress the blinding rage he felt. Abruptly, he pushed back against his seat
and pointed at the window with a palsied hand, will you, for God's
sake? Look, he asked, drawing in an agitated breath. The pilot
bent over in a moment. His gaze shifted coldly to Wilson's well, he
asked. Wilson jerked his head around. The plates were in their normal position.
Oh now, wait, he said, before the dread could come.
I saw him pry that plate up, mister Wilson. If you don't,
I saw him pry it up, said Wilson. The pilot stood there looking
at him in the same withdrawn almost aghast way as the stewardess had. Wilson
shuddered violently. Listen, I saw him, he cried. The sudden break
in his voice appalled him. In a second, the pilot was down beside
him. Mister Wilson, please, he said. All right, you saw
him, but remember there are other people aboard. We mustn't alarm them.
Wilson was too shaken to understand at first. You mean you've seen him,
then, he asked, of course, the pilot said, but we don't
want to frighten the passengers. You can understand that. Of course, of
course I don't want to. Wilson felt a spastic coiling in his groin and
low stomach. Suddenly, he pressed his lips together and looked at the pilot
with malevolent eyes. I understand, he said, the thing we have to
remember began the pilot. We can stop now, Wilson said, Sir Wilson
shuddered. Get out of here, he said, mister Wilson, what will
you stop? Face whitening. Wilson turned from the pilot and stared out at
the wing, eyes like stone. He glared back suddenly, rest assured.
I'd not say another word, he snapped, mister Wilson, try to understand.
R Wilson twisted away and stared out venomously at the engine. From a
corner of his vision, he saw two passengers standing in the aisle looking at
him, idiots. His mind exploded. He felt his hands begin to tremble,
and for a few seconds was afraid that he was going to vomit.
It's the motion, he told himself. The plane was bucking in the air
now, like a storm tossed boat. He realized that the pilot was still
talking to him, and refocusing his eyes, he looked at the man's reflection
in the window beside him. Mutely somber stood the stewardess blind idiots. Both
of them thought Wilson. He did not indicate his notice of their departure.
Reflected on the window, he saw them heading toward the rear of the cabin.
They'll be discussing me now, he thought, setting up plans in case
I grow violent. He wished now that the man would reappear, pull off
the cowling plate and ruin the engine. It gave him a sense of vengeful
pleasure to know that only he stood between catastrophe and the more than thirty people
aboard. If he chose, he could allow that catastrophe to take place,
Wilson smiled without humor. There would be a royal suicide, he thought.
The little man dropped down again, and Wilson saw what he'd thought was correct.
The man had pressed the plate back into place before jumping away. For
now he was prying it up again, and it was raising easily, peeling
back like skin excised by some grotesque sagent. The motion of that wing was
very broken, but the man seemed to have no difficulty staying balanced. Once
more, Wilson felt panic. What was he to do? No one believed
him. If he tried to convince them any more, they'd probably restrain him
by force. If he asked the stewardess to sit by him. It would
be at best only a momentary reprieve. The second she departed, or remaining
fell asleep, the man would return, even if she stayed a wig beside
him. What was to keep the man from tampering with the engines on the
other wing? Wilson shuddered, a coldness of dread misting along his bones.
Do you God? There was nothing to be done. He twitched as across
the window through which he watched the little man, the pilot's reflection passed.
The insanity of the moment almost broken, the man and the pilot within feet
of each other, both seen by him, yet not aware of one another.
No, that was wrong. The little man had glanced across his shoulder
as the pilot passed, as if he knew there was no need to leap
off any more, that Wilson's capacity for interfering was at an end. Wilson
suddenly trembled with a mind searing rage. I'll kill you, he thought,
you've filthy, little animal. I'll kill you outside the engine faltered. It
lasted only for a second, but in that second, it seemed to Wilson
as if his heart had also stopped. He pressed against the window, staring.
The man had bent the cowling plate far back and was now on his
knees, poking a curious hand into the engine. Don't. Wilson heard the
whimper of his own voice, begging don't again. The engine failed. Wilson
looked around in horror. Was everyone deaf? He raised his hand to press
the button for the stewardess, then jerked it back. No, they lock
him up, restrain him somehow, and he was the only one who knew
what was happening, the only one who help God. Wilson bit his lower
lip until the pain made him whimper. He twisted around again and jolted.
The stewardess was hurrying down the rocking aisle. She'd heard it. He watched
her fixedly and saw her glance at him as she passed his seat. She
stopped three seats down the aisle. Some one else had heard. Wilson watched
the stewardess as she leaned over, talking to the unseen passenger outside. The
engine coughed again. Wilson jerked his head around and looked out with horror,
pinched eyes. Damn you, he whined. He turned again and saw the
Stewardess coming back up the aisle. She didn't look alarmed. Wilson stared at
her with unbelieving eyes. It was impossible. He twisted around to follow her
swaying movement and saw her turn into the kitchen. Know Wilson was shaking so
badly now that he couldn't stop. No one had heard, no one knew.
Suddenly, Wilson bent over and slid his overnight bag out from under the
seat. On zipping it, he jerked out his briefcase and threw it on
the carpeting. Then, reaching in again, he grabbed the Orskin envelope and
straightened up. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the Stewardess coming
back and pushed the bag beneath the seat with his shoes, shoving the Orskin
envelope beside himself. He sat there rigidly, breath quavering in his chest as
she went by. Then he pulled the envelope into his lap and untied it.
His movements were so feverish that he almost dropped a pistol. He caught
it by the barrel, then clutched at the stock with white knuckled fingers and
pushed off the safety catch. He glanced outside and felt himself grow cold.
The man was looking at him. Wilson pressed his shaking lips together. It
was impossible that the man knew what he intended. He swallowed and tried to
catch his breath. He shifted his gaze to where the stewardess was handing some
pills to the passenger ahead, then looked back at the wing. The man
was turning to the engine once again reaching in. Wilson's grip tightened on the
pistol. He began to raise it. Suddenly he lowered it. The window
was too thick. The bullet might be deflected and kill one of the passengers.
He shuddered and stared out at the little man again. The engine failed,
and Wilson saw an irruption of sparks cast light across the man's animal feet.
He braced himself. There was only one answer. He looked down at
the handle of the emergency door. There was a transparent cover over it.
Wilson pulled it free and dropped it. He looked outside. The man was
still there, crouched and probing at the engine with his hand. Wilson sucked
in trembling breath. He put his left hand on the door handle and tested
it wouldn't move downward, upward, there was play. Abruptly, Wilson let
go and put the pistol in his lap. No time for argument, he
told himself. With shaking hands, he buckled the belt across his thighs.
When the door was opened, there would be a tremendous rushing out of air.
For the safety of the ship, he must not go with it now.
Wilson picked the pistol up again, his heart beat staggering. He'd have
to be sudden accurate. If he missed, the man might jump onto the
other wing, wars on to the tail assembly, wherein violet he could rupture
wires, mangle flaps, destroy the balance of the ship. No, this
was the only way. He'd fire low and try and hit the man in
the chest or stomach. Wilson filled his lungs with air now, he thought.
Now. The stewardess came up the aisle as Wilson started pulling at the
handle for a moment, frozen in his steps, she couldn't speak. A
look of stupefied horror distended their features, and she raised one hand as if
imploring him. Then suddenly her voice was shrilling above the noise of the engines.
Mister Wilson, No get back, cried Wilson, as he wrenched the
handle up. The door seemed to disappear. One second it was by him
in his grip, the next, with a hissing roar, it was gone.
In the same instant, Wilson felt himself enveloped by a monstrous suction which
tried to tear him from his seat. His head and shoulders left the cabin,
and suddenly he was breathing tenuous, freezing air. For a moment,
ear drums, almost basting from the thunder of the engine's eyes blinded by the
Arctic wings, he forgot the man. It seemed. He heard a prick
of screaming in the maelstrom that surrounded him, a distant shout. Then Wilson
saw the man. He was walking across the wing, gnalled form, leaning
forward, talent twisted, hands outstretched an eagerness. Wilson flung his arm up
fired. The explosion was like a popping in the roaring violence of the air.
The man staggered, lashed out, and Wilson felt a streak of pain
across his head. He fired again at immediate range and saw the man go
flailing backward, then suddenly disappear, with no more solidity than a paper doll
swept in a gale. Wilson felt a bursting numbness in his brain. He
felt a pistol torn from failing fingers. Then all was lost in winter darkness.
He stared and mumbled. There was a warmness trickling in his veins.
His limbs felt wooden. In the darkness, he could hear a shuffling sound,
a delicate swell of voices. He was lying face up on something moving,
joggling. A cold wind sprinkled on his face. He felt the surface
tilt beneath him. He sighed. The plane was landed, and he was
being carried off on a stretcher. His head wound likely plus an injection to
quiet him. Nuttiest way of trying to commit suicide I ever heard of,
said a voice somewhere. Wilson felt the pleasure of amusement. Whoever spoke was
wrong, of course, as would be established soon enough when the engine was
examined and they checked his wound more closely. Then they'd realize that he'd saved
them all. Wilson slept without dreams. Nightmare twenty thousand feet by Richard Matheson,