And when it does finally rise, when one is conscious of being airborne at last, there is always the clamor of one’s inner voice: Will it clear those power lines just beyond the airport boundaries? Will it manage to soar above the high-rises of the city streets or the mountains ringing the desert location—or the roaring waters of an ocean takeoff? And what about that dangerously steep slanting of wings when the aircraft swerves, as it inevitably seems to do, before heading into the flight-path?
Naturally, these questions are never voiced, let alone answered, in the little recitation that a bored stewardess hastily delivers prior to takeoff. Fasten your seat belts . . . place your seat in the upright position . . . extinguish all smoking materials . . . blah, blah, blah, oxygen mask overhead, blah, blah, blah, emergency exits . . . Valentine could almost recite the standard reassurances from memory, but there was no point to it, because they were meaningless.
How many times had that same speech been made just before a takeoff where the plane did not clear the wires, or the buildings, or the mountaintop, or the surface of the sea? How many times had the mechanical reassurance been given before an aircraft started to bank, only to spin into the spiral of a fatal crash? Once you hit the power line or the jutting obstacle ahead, it didn’t much matter whether or not the oxygen mask descended on schedule; and the emergency exits offered no escape from the fiery explosion.
Valentine shifted in his seat. Why was he wasting his time with such morbidities? He’d already gone the route; run the gauntlet of traffic and terminal, endured the anticipatory dread of waiting and survived the perils, real and imaginary, of the takeoff. So why was he still uptight now?
Then realization came. It wasn’t fear of danger that produced his palpitations of mind and body. The real terror came from the realization of his helplessness.
Here he was, sailing along serenely at an elevation of thirty-five thousand feet. The FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS sign had blinked off, and nicotine-addicts were free to risk lung cancer again. The stewardesses would go into the galley soon to load the refreshment cart, and up front, behind the closed door sealing off the nose of the plane, the pilot and his crew were huddled over their instrument panels.
Or were they? For all he knew, they might be discussing this afternoon’s football games, or last night’s adventures on the town. Somewhere Valentine had read that employees of flight crews were instructed not to indulge in alcohol or any form of dissipation for twenty-four hours prior to a scheduled assignment. But how could you be certain they’d followed those instructions? There were also those reassuring public-relations statements about mandatory regular physical checkups for all flight personnel, but again, there was always the random factor of unpredictability. Suddenly he remembered an episode in his own family history—how Uncle Joe had gone in for his usual annual physical checkup and emerged from the doctor’s office with a clean bill of health, only to drop dead of cardiac arrest in the elevator that was taking him down to the street. Good old Uncle Joe—only forty-eight years old, pink of condition, best tennis player in the annual competition at the country club. No smoking, no drinking, no bad habits—but suddenly, without warning, no heartbeat. If it could happen to his Uncle Joe going down in an elevator, it sure could happen to somebody else’s uncle going up in an aircraft. The difference being that when Uncle Joe’s heart gave out, the elevator didn’t crash.
For goodness sake, Valentine told himself, stop acting like a baby! Try to think of something else.
And so he did. He thought about air pockets—unexpected wind currents that could envelop the plane suddenly, without warning, and hurl it to destruction below. He thought about wind-shears that crumpled wings and turned jumbo jets into helpless insects unable to withstand the buffeting of a storm.
Valentine blinked and jerked erect at the sudden glimpse of green slashing through the sky beyond the window.
Lightning.
He’d been right about the presence of the storm ahead. Only it wasn’t ahead anymore; they were actually into it now. The skies beyond the windows were almost black and raindrops spattered against the glass.
The plane bounced into a sickening lurch and so did Valentine’s stomach.
Glancing down, he noted that his hands were gripping the edges of his armrest.
White knuckles. How he hated that casually used slang phrase! But his knuckles were white and he was pretty sure that his face was turning green.
Better find out about that. As plane and stomach wrenched again, Valentine released his grip on the armrest and scooped up the objects on his tray table, depositing them in the briefcase. Pushing the table up and securing it in position against the back of the seat directly ahead of him, he rose and made his way down the aisle in the direction of the lavatory. Two stewardesses were in the galley now and neither of them—a rather attractive young girl and her somewhat older companion—noticed him as he moved past and entered the lavatory on his left.
The cubicle was small and dark, like an upright coffin, but when the door closed behind him, the fluorescence flickered on. Valentine found himself facing the washstand mirror and there his worst fears were confirmed. His face did have a greenish cast. He stared at his reflection, noting the telltale terror in his eyes. Confronting his countenance, he found the final fear. Helplessness was not the ultimate horror, nor was the fear of flying. The thing that really got to him was the fear of falling.
Who knows where it started, or when: probably in infancy. As far back as he could remember he was aware of that particular phobia, both in waking life and in his all-too-vivid dreams. It was in those dreams, dreams that survived into adulthood, that he would suddenly find himself dropping down into darkness—deep, deep darkness, like that of the storm clouds outside the plane. There were no windows in the lavatory and he couldn’t see the sky here, but he could feel the force of the storm that surged around the aircraft. The wrenches came faster now, quickening in a regular rhythm. A tiny light flickered on behind the lettered inscription: PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEAT.
Valentine ignored it. But he couldn’t ignore the mounting panic.
Once again he faced himself in the mirror, trying to ignore the too-bright terror in his eyes. Take a good look at yourself. You’re a grown man; a computer analyst and a good one. You of all people should be comfortable around advanced technology. Well, those people up there in the nose of this plane are knowledgeable, too. They have their own expertise. There must be hundreds of flights that encounter storms and air turbulence every day and pass through safely. Why should this one be different?
But he still was facing the question. Why was he so afraid of falling? Was he crazy? Or was all this the result of some trauma he’d pushed back into the unconscious? Maybe his mother may have accidentally dropped him as a baby.
If so, she must have dropped you on your head, Valentine told himself.
The plane lurched again and Valentine felt his gut respond in sympathy, but sympathy wouldn’t help him now; not the way he was breathing. For the first time, he realized that the sound he had vaguely noted over the drone of the engines was emanating from his own mouth. He wasn’t just breathing hard, he was gasping—hyperventilating. It wasn’t a new experience and he knew what to do. Valentine reached into the slot beneath the washbasin and pulled out a barf bag. He yanked it open, lowered himself to the toilet seat and began to breathe into the receptacle. Suddenly he looked up at the sound of a ping. The light above the washbasin flashed again.
PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEAT.
Another ping and then the crackle of a voice on the intercom:
“This is Captain Deveraux. Folks, I’d like you to buckle up snugly in your seat belt and extinguish your smoking materials. We have a little unfriendly weather up ahead and we just might bounce around for a bit.”
Now he tells us. Valentine grimaced wryly and started to raise the paper bag to his mouth and nose again.
Another ping interrupted him. This time the voice of one of the stewardesses came ov
er the intercom:
“We’ll be suspending our in-flight service for a few minutes. For those of you still waiting for refreshment, we’ll get back to you as soon as we’re through the turbulence.”
Who needs refreshments. Valentine raised the bag once more, only to halt at the sound of a knock on the lavatory door. The muffled voice of the stewardess was faintly audible: “Please get back to your seat as soon as you can.”
Valentine opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out but a hoarse gasp.
The plane bucked violently. Valentine’s right elbow knocked violently against the edge of the washstand. But the knock outside the door was more violent still.
Again he heard the voice of the stewardess: “Hello in there! Can you hear me? Helloooo!”
Valentine ignored her as he buried his face in the folds of the open bag, concentrating on regulating his breathing. During the moment of merciful silence from the passageway outside the door, he managed to regain control and regulate his respiration.
Then the knocking resumed, in a series of sharp staccato raps. The voice accompanying it held a note of shrill urgency:
“Mr. Valentine? Can I help you? Mr. Valentine!”
This time Valentine managed a reply. “Just a minute—I’ll be right out.”
Rising, he stood swaying before the mirror. His color looked better now—the greenish tinge had disappeared—but he still felt faint. Turning on the tap and gripping the knob firmly to maintain the water’s reluctant flow, he splashed his face with his free hand. Through the door the stewardess’s voice sounded again:
“I’ll help you to your seat.”
“One moment,” Valentine called. “Just a moment.”
Moment of decision, Valentine told himself. Reluctantly he dipped his hand into his left jacket pocket and pulled out a small, plastic pillbox. Fumbling with the catch, he opened the container and dumped its contents into his palm—two blue Valiums and a Dramamine. As he stared at the pills, his resolution firmed. He knew what to expect if he swallowed all three of the capsules—better to be a walking zombie than the totally lifeless victim of a heart attack. Taking a deep breath, he gulped down the pills.
Pulling a paper cup from the wall-container, he filled it with water for a chaser. Swallowing, he glanced again into the mirror. The floor of the plane beneath his feet lurched sickeningly and the mirror image distorted in accompaniment to his own grimace. Groaning, he closed his eyes and turned, fumbling for the door latch.
The door opened and so did his eyes. The countenance he presented to the waiting stewardess was perfectly calm.
But from her own expression, she wasn’t buying it. He recognized that I’ve-been-here-before look in her smile.
“I know how you feel, Mr. Valentine.” Her voice sounded softly over the tortured throbbing of the plane’s engines. “Lots of people are uptight about flying when the weather gets a little rough. Just try to remember that statistically it’s safer up here than on the ground—safer even than your own bathroom.”
Spare me the humor. Valentine forced a response to her smile. “I’m fine,” he told her. “Perfectly fine.”
The plane bounced again, and suddenly Valentine lost his balance, colliding against the stewardess. The younger stewardess was standing behind her companion and now she made her presence known with a laugh.
“Whoops!” She approached, gripping his left arm. “Let’s get you back to your seat.”
The older stewardess reached out to grasp his right arm and the two women started to propel him past the galley entry way.
Valentine stifled a groan, but not the thought which prompted it. They’re treating me like a basket case! You’d think I was ninety years old. But if those pills would only start working, I’ll bet I wouldn’t feel a day over eighty.
Proceeding down the aisle, he noticed that his fellow passengers were no longer asleep. The buffeting of the storm had brought rude awakenings to the fat man, the old couple, and their younger counterparts. Only the woman whom he guessed to be the mother of the wriggling little girl still rested with her eyes closed.
He hoped that others farther back in the cabin hadn’t awakened. The way these idiots here watched his progress made him doubly self-conscious; he must look like some kind of a nut lurching along in the custody of his two uniformed attendants.
He settled down into his seat, uneasily aware that the stewardesses were still hovering over him. The older of the two was eyeing his face for telltale signs of stress, but the younger one directed her attention to the empty seat beside him, where his briefcase rested. Following her glance, he discovered that it rested no longer. The jolting of the plane had toppled it over on its side and its contents were now strewn across the surface of the seat—note pad, calculator, and the textbook.
The young stewardess squinted down at the opened title page. “Micro Chip Logic—The Liberation of the Left Brain.” She smiled at him. “You’re a science fiction fan, huh?”
“It’s a textbook,” Valentine told her. “Computers.”
The young stewardess gave him a questioning glance. “You really read this stuff?”
“I wrote it,” Valentine murmured.
The girl checked the title page again. “My goodness, so you did.” She smiled at her older companion. “How about that?”
Ignoring her, the senior stewardess addressed Valentine. “Very impressive. But why don’t we put it away now and try to get some sleep?”
Valentine’s inward groan echoed again. What gives? First they act as if I were an old man, and now they re treating me like a kid.
He left the thought unspoken, but now, as the younger stewardess reached up and turned off his reading lamp, he found his voice. “No—please don’t. I’d rather have the light on.”
The girl shrugged and switched the light back on, then turned and made her way along the aisle. The senior stewardess remained poised beside Valentine’s seat, peering down at his face. For a moment she studied it, then came to a decision. She bent forward to speak, her low murmur scarcely audible above the whine of the engines.
“Mr. Valentine—we’re not supposed to do this, but I have these sedatives—” Reaching into her jacket pocket, she brought out a small bottle, carefully concealing it in the palm of her hand as she continued. “They might help you get some rest.”
Valentine shook his head quickly. “No thanks.”
“They’re very mild,” she persisted.
Valentine forced a smile of reassurance. “I’ll be fine—really I will.”
He blinked, startled at the sudden flash of light from above the back of the seat directly before him.
Now a diminutive head popped up over the seat back. Valentine recognized the face of the little girl as she grinned down at him, one hand gripping the seat for support and the other brandishing a piece of exposed film. Then he realized—the kid had taken the photograph with her Polaroid.
The little girl dangled the developing snapshot before them and her grin broadened. “This will cost you four bucks,” she said.
“What?” The senior stewardess offered her a perplexed frown.
“Only kidding,” the girl giggled.
“Come along,” said the stewardess, moving forward to take the girl’s arm. “No more pictures. You’re supposed to be buckled down next to your mommy.”
Valentine watched as she ushered the protesting youngster back to her seat beside her dozing mother across the aisle. Reluctantly the child secured her seat belt while the stewardess waited. Then she turned back to Valentine.
“I’m Susan St. John. If you need anything, just call for me.”
Valentine shook his head, forcing another fixed smile. “Thank you again. But don’t worry, I’m all right now, truly I am.”
The stewardess nodded and started off. Her movement left the aisle vacant and revealed the face of the little girl in the seat directly across from him. She wasn’t grinning now, just staring at him—and what was this thing she was holding up f
or his inspection? A doll wearing a striped jacket and a straw hat—a doll with the face of W.C. Fields! Valentine blinked. No, it wasn’t a doll—more like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
The little girl’s face remained impassive but the dummy peered at him with an ugly crooked grin of its own.
It was bad enough having all these people looking at him without putting up with a dummy too. And that grin was just too much—
Valentine turned away, his breath rasping a warning. Better not get worked up or he’d start hyperventilating again. He fumbled in his right-hand pocket and pulled a cigarette loose from its pack. Placing it between his lips, he sent his hand on an errand into the pocket once more, this time to bring out a matchbook.
Striking a match on its surface, he cupped his palms and bent forward to get a light—then jerked his head up at the sound of a shrill whistle.
Turning, he stared at the little girl across the aisle. Her face was still impassive, but W.C. Fields suddenly jerked one of his arms up toward the lighted sign overhead. A squeaky mock-adult voice seemed to issue from the grin-distorted mouth.
“You heard the captain. No smoking!”
The little girl’s expression was unchanged. For a moment Valentine found himself half believing that the dummy had actually spoken.
Again the voice sounded—this time louder, more emphatic.
“N-O! No smoking!”
Now the fat man occupying the seat in front of her turned and glared at Valentine. From the seats behind his own, occupied by the elderly couple, an old lady’s voice rose shrilly:
“He ought to have more respect for his body!”
Valentine extinguished the flickering flame, then dropped the match into his ashtray, followed by his cigarette.
Across the aisle, the little girl closed her eyes with a smile of satisfaction. Clasping the dummy in her arm, she lay back, prepared to sleep. The fat man turned his glance away and from behind Valentine’s seat there was only silence.