Stephen King - The Running Man

“Come forward. We’re taking off.” He looked at McCone. “You go wherever you please, little man. You have the run of the ship. Just don’t bother the crew.”

McCone said nothing and sat down near the curtained divider between first and second class. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he pushed through into the next section and was gone.

Richards walked to the woman, using the high backs of the seats for support. “I’d like the window seat,” he said. “I’ve only flown once before.” He tried to smile but she only looked at him dumbly.

He slid in, and she sat next to him. She buckled his belt for him so his hand did not have to come out of his pocket.

“You’re like a bad dream,” she said. “One that never ends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t-” she began, and he clamped a hand over her mouth and shook his head. He mouthed the word No! at her eyes.

The plane swung around with slow, infinite care, turbines screaming, and began to trundle toward the runways like an ungainly duck about to enter the water. It was so big that Richards felt as if the plane were standing still and the earth itself was moving.

Maybe it’s all illusion, he thought wildly. Maybe they’ve rigged 3-D projectors outside all the windows and-

He cut the thought off.

Now they had reached the end of the taxiway and the plane made a cumbersome right turn. They ran at right angles to the runways, passing Three and Two. At One they turned left and paused for a second.

Over the intercom Holloway said expressionlessly: “Taking off, Mr. Richards.”

The plane began to move slowly at first, at no more than air-car speed, and then there was a sudden terrifying burst of acceleration that made Richards want to scream aloud in terror.

He was driven back into the soft pile of his seat, and the landing lights outside suddenly began to leap by with dizzying speed. The scrub bushes and exhaust-stunted trees on the desolate, sunset-riven horizon roared toward them. The engines wound up and up and up. The floor began to vibrate again.

He suddenly realized that Amelia Williams was holding on to his shoulder with both hands, her face twisted into a miserable grimace of fear.

Dear God, she’s never flown either!

“ We’re going,” he said. He found himself repeating it over and over and over, unable to stop. “We’re going. We’re going.”

“Where?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He was just beginning to know.

The two troopers on roadblock duty at the eastern entrance of the jetport watched the huge liner fling itself down the runway, gaining speed. Its lights blinked orange and green in the growing dark, and the howl of its engines buffeted their ears.

“He’s going. Christ, he’s going.”

“Where?” said the other.

They watched the dark shape as it separated from the ground. Its engines took on a curiously flat sound, like artillery practice on a cold morning. It rose at a steep angle, as real and as tangible and as prosaic as a cube of butter on a plate, yet improbable with flight.

“You think he’s got it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

The roar of the jet was now coming to them in falling cycles.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though.” The first turned from the diminishing lights and turned up his collar. “I’m glad he’s got that bastard with him. That McCone.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“As long as I don’t have to answer it.”

“Would you like to see him pull it off?”

The trooper said nothing for a long time. The sound of the jet faded, faded, faded, until it disappeared into the underground hum of nerves at work.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will?”

A crescent smile in the darkness. “My friend, I think there’s gonna be a big boom.”

The earth had dropped away below them.

Richards stared out wonderingly, unable to drink his fill; he had slept through the other flight as if in wait for this one. The sky had deepened to a shade that hung on the borderline between royal velvet and black. Stars poked through with hesitant brilliance. On the western horizon, the only remnant of the sun was a bitter orange line that illuminated the dark earth below not at all. There was a nestle of lights below he took to be Derry.

“Mr. Richards?”

“Yes.” He jumped in his seat as if he had been poked.

“We are in a holding pattern right now. That means we are describing a large circle above the Voigt Jetport. Instructions?”

Richards thought carefully. It wouldn’t do to give too much away.

“What’s the absolute lowest you can fly this thing?”

There was a long pause for consultation. “We could get away with two thousand feet,” Holloway said cautiously. “It’s against N.S.A. regs, but-”

“Never mind that,” Richards said. “I have to put myself in your hands to a certain extent, Mr. Holloway. I know very little of flying and I’m sure you’ve been briefed on that. But please remember that the people who are full of bright ideas about how to bamboozle me are all on the ground and out of danger. If you lie to me about anything and I find out-”

“Nobody up here is going to do any lying,” Holloway said. “We’re only interested in getting this thing back down the way it went up.”

“Okay. Good.” He gave himself time to think. Amelia Williams sat rigidly beside him, her hands folded in her lap.

“Go due west,” he said abruptly. “Two thousand feet. Point out the sights as we go along, please.”

“The sights?”

“What we’re going over,” Richards said. “I’ve only flown once before.-

“Oh.” Holloway sounded relieved.

The plane banked beneath their feet and the dark sunset line outside the window tilted on its ear. Richards watched, fascinated. Now it gleamed aslant the thick window, making odd, fugitive sungleams just beyond the glass. We’re chasing the sun, he thought. Isn’t that amazing?

It was thirty-five minutes after six.

The back of the seat in front of Richards was a revelation in itself. There was a pocket with a safety handbook in it. In case of air turbulence, fasten your belt. If the cabin loses pressure, pull down the air mask directly over your head. In case of engine trouble, the stewardess will give you further instructions. In case of sudden explosive death, hope you have enough dental fillings to insure identification.

There was a small Free-Vee set into the seat panel at eye level. A metal card below it reminded the viewer that channels would come and go with a fair degree of speed. A touch-control channel selector was provided for the hungry viewer.

Below and to the right of the Free-Vee was a pad of airline stationery and a GA stylus on a chain. Richards pulled out a sheet and wrote clumsily on his knee:

“Odds are 99 out of 100 that you’re bugged, shoe mike or hair mike, maybe mesh transmitter on your sleeve. McCone listening and waiting for you to drop the other shoe, I bet. In a minute have a hysterical outburst and beg me not to pull the ring. It’ll make our chances better. You game?”

She nodded and Richards hesitated, then wrote again:

“Why did you lie about it?”

She plucked the stylus out of his hand and held it over the paper on his knee for a moment and then wrote: “Don’t know. You made me feel like a murderer. Wife. And you seemed so”-the stylus paused, wavered and then scrawled-“pitiful.”

Richards raised his eyebrows and grinned a little-it hurt. He offered her the stylus but she shook her head mutely. He wrote: “Go into your act in about 5 minutes.”