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 the slide. He jumped, raising both legs at the same time so he looked like a man doing a seat-drop on a trampoline. He landed on his butt and slid to the bottom. It was neatly done; the foot of the slide barely moved. He hit the tarmac with his stockinged feet, stood up, twirled around, and made a mock bow with his arms held out behind him.

“Easy as pie!” he called up. “Next customer!”

“That’s you, miss,” Brian said. “Is it Bethany?”

“Yes,” she said nervously. “I don’t think I can do this. I flunked gym all three semesters and they finally let me take home ec again instead.”

“You’ll do fine,” Brian told her. He reflected that people used the slide with much less coaxing and a lot more enthusiasm when there was a threat they could see — a hole in the fuselage or a fire in one of the portside engines. “Shoes off?”

Bethany’s shoes — actually a pair of old pink sneakers — were off, but she tried to withdraw from the doorway and the bright-orange slide just the same. “Maybe if I could just have a drink before—”

“Mr Hopewell’s holding the slide and you’ll be fine,” Brian coaxed, but he was beginning to be afraid he might have to push her. He didn’t want to, but if she didn’t jump soon, he would. You couldn’t let them go to the end of the line until their courage returned; that was the big no-no when it came to the escape slide. If you did that, they all wanted to go to the end of the line.

“Go on, Bethany,” Albert said suddenly. He had taken his violin case from the overhead compartment and held it tucked under one arm. “I’m scared to death of that thing, and if you go, I’ll have to.”

She looked at him, surprised. “Why?”

Albert’s face was very red. “Because you’re a girl,” he said simply. “I know I’m a sexist rat, but that’s it.”

Bethany looked at him a moment longer, then laughed and turned to the slide. Brian had made up his mind to push her if she looked around or drew back again, but she didn’t. “Boy, I wish I had some grass,” she said, and jumped.

She had seen Nick’s seat-drop maneuver and knew what to do, but at the last moment she lost her courage and tried to get her feet under her again. As a result, she skidded to one side when she came down on the slide’s bouncy surface. Brian was sure she was going to tumble off, but Bethany herself saw the danger and managed to roll back. She shot down the slope on her right side, one hand over her head, her blouse rucking up almost to the nape of her neck. Then Nick caught her and she stepped off.

“Oh boy,” she said breathlessly. “Just like being a kid again.”

“Are you all right?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. I think I might have wet my pants a little, but I’m okay.”

Nick smiled at her and turned back to the slide.

Albert looked apologetically at Brian and extended the violin case. “Would you mind holding this for me? I’m afraid if I fall off the slide, it might get broken. My folks’d kill me. It’s a Gretch.”

Brian took it. His face was calm and serious, but he was smiling inside. “Could I look? I used to play one of these about a thousand years ago.”

“Sure,” Albert said.

Brian’s interest had a calming effect on the boy... which was exactly what he had hoped for. He unsnapped the three catches and opened the case. The violin inside was indeed a Gretch, and not from the bottom of that prestigious line, either. Brian guessed you could buy a compact car for the amount of money this had cost.

“Beautiful,” he said, and plucked out four quick notes along the neck: My dog has fleas. They rang sweetly and beautifully. Brian closed and latched the case again. “I’ll keep it safe. Promise.”

“Thanks.” Albert stood in the doorway, took a deep breath, then let it out again. “Geronimo,” he said in a weak little voice and jumped. He tucked his hands into his armpits as he did so — protecting his hands in any situation where physical damage was possible was so ingrained in him that it had become a reflex. He seat-dropped onto the slide and shot neatly to the bottom.