course he had not solved his big case at all, although he did not know that until later.
What went on in a person's mind? Nothing at all — at such times, the mind and body were one. But there, Leland thought, there in the blankness, lay the riddle of history.
...5:10 P.M., MST...
The weather report had been wrong. The cloud cover extended all the way to the Rockies, and now that the sun was below the mountains, the endless billowy carpet had turned to the color of slate. The 747 was at 38,000 feet, and the Rockies looked like a snow-covered archipelago anchored in a fantastic, undiscovered sea.
Leland still loved flying — and happily, he spent more time in the air than ever. He wasn't going to live long enough to get into space, but at times he wondered how close he would be able to come before he died. In the back of his mind was the notion to take a trip to Europe simply to fly over on the
Concorde.
His old wingman Billy Gibbs up in Eureka had not been in an airplane in thirty years. Leland had watched him pull barrel rolls over the English Channel, howling like a savage; but once the war was over, Billy Gibbs put flying out of his mind forever. There was a line in Shakespeare about the fault lying not in our stars, but ourselves. The passage of time had made so much clear. Everything we do, everything that happens to us, rises out of impulses most people can't even feel, much less understand.
After the dinner clamor, he strolled back to the galley to get acquainted with Kathi Logan. After serving a full flight, she looked a little frazzled.
"Thanks for your help."
"Hi. Did the aspirins work?"
"Sure. I'm hoping you do plastic surgery."
She stared at his brow. "No, that isn't elegant."
"How did you spot me back at the airport?"
"You
are
a cop, aren't you? I took the call from the terminal on you. The officer told me you had a cut, but actually I went out there looking for the one who carried a gun. It was a test."
"How did you do?"
"I got an A."
He remembered that a marshal was on the plane. Usually when he was confronted with a problem like that, he had it solved before the plane reached cruise altitude. Under Leland's own rules, Kathi Logan was not supposed to tell him who the guy was.
"Would you like another Coke?"
"Get your work out of the way, first."
"It's no trouble."
"Can I ask what kind of a policeman you are?"
"I'm a consultant on security and police procedures. I just finished a three-day seminar at McDonnell Douglas."
"You make it sound simple. I know how much weight you carry."
He grinned. "My name is Joe."
"I'm Kathi. How long have you been sober?"
He tried to conceal his surprise with her directness. "Oh, a long time. I didn't have a bad case anyway, knocking myself out at night. I quit when I realized I was looking forward to getting loaded at lunch."
"I had to wait until I woke up in Clark County jail. That's Vegas."
"I know."
"Surprised?"
"Not now. In fact, I'm getting to like it."
The plane rocked through another dish-rattling patch of turbulence. She grinned. "You remind
me
of a boxer I used to know..."
He laughed aloud. "Cut it out."
"No, he was always mannerly and soft-spoken. He never forced himself on people."
"How did he do in the ring?"
"He was welterweight champion of the world."
She kept her eyes on him as he smiled. She was selling hard, but it still felt good. He glanced at the ice in his glass. When he looked up again, she laughed at him silently.
"What I was about to say was that he was shy, too."
Kathi Logan had a condo on the beach north of San Diego, a studio with a sleeping loft, fireplace, and skylights. It sounded beautiful. He lived outside of New York in a garden apartment and spent most of his time in Washington and Virginia motel rooms. When he got out to the Coast, it was more of the same in Palo Alto. He had been to Santa Barbara twice. Fortunately, she flew east almost every other week. As long as she was home within seven days to water her
What went on in a person's mind? Nothing at all — at such times, the mind and body were one. But there, Leland thought, there in the blankness, lay the riddle of history.
...5:10 P.M., MST...
The weather report had been wrong. The cloud cover extended all the way to the Rockies, and now that the sun was below the mountains, the endless billowy carpet had turned to the color of slate. The 747 was at 38,000 feet, and the Rockies looked like a snow-covered archipelago anchored in a fantastic, undiscovered sea.
Leland still loved flying — and happily, he spent more time in the air than ever. He wasn't going to live long enough to get into space, but at times he wondered how close he would be able to come before he died. In the back of his mind was the notion to take a trip to Europe simply to fly over on the
Concorde.
His old wingman Billy Gibbs up in Eureka had not been in an airplane in thirty years. Leland had watched him pull barrel rolls over the English Channel, howling like a savage; but once the war was over, Billy Gibbs put flying out of his mind forever. There was a line in Shakespeare about the fault lying not in our stars, but ourselves. The passage of time had made so much clear. Everything we do, everything that happens to us, rises out of impulses most people can't even feel, much less understand.
After the dinner clamor, he strolled back to the galley to get acquainted with Kathi Logan. After serving a full flight, she looked a little frazzled.
"Thanks for your help."
"Hi. Did the aspirins work?"
"Sure. I'm hoping you do plastic surgery."
She stared at his brow. "No, that isn't elegant."
"How did you spot me back at the airport?"
"You
are
a cop, aren't you? I took the call from the terminal on you. The officer told me you had a cut, but actually I went out there looking for the one who carried a gun. It was a test."
"How did you do?"
"I got an A."
He remembered that a marshal was on the plane. Usually when he was confronted with a problem like that, he had it solved before the plane reached cruise altitude. Under Leland's own rules, Kathi Logan was not supposed to tell him who the guy was.
"Would you like another Coke?"
"Get your work out of the way, first."
"It's no trouble."
"Can I ask what kind of a policeman you are?"
"I'm a consultant on security and police procedures. I just finished a three-day seminar at McDonnell Douglas."
"You make it sound simple. I know how much weight you carry."
He grinned. "My name is Joe."
"I'm Kathi. How long have you been sober?"
He tried to conceal his surprise with her directness. "Oh, a long time. I didn't have a bad case anyway, knocking myself out at night. I quit when I realized I was looking forward to getting loaded at lunch."
"I had to wait until I woke up in Clark County jail. That's Vegas."
"I know."
"Surprised?"
"Not now. In fact, I'm getting to like it."
The plane rocked through another dish-rattling patch of turbulence. She grinned. "You remind
me
of a boxer I used to know..."
He laughed aloud. "Cut it out."
"No, he was always mannerly and soft-spoken. He never forced himself on people."
"How did he do in the ring?"
"He was welterweight champion of the world."
She kept her eyes on him as he smiled. She was selling hard, but it still felt good. He glanced at the ice in his glass. When he looked up again, she laughed at him silently.
"What I was about to say was that he was shy, too."
Kathi Logan had a condo on the beach north of San Diego, a studio with a sleeping loft, fireplace, and skylights. It sounded beautiful. He lived outside of New York in a garden apartment and spent most of his time in Washington and Virginia motel rooms. When he got out to the Coast, it was more of the same in Palo Alto. He had been to Santa Barbara twice. Fortunately, she flew east almost every other week. As long as she was home within seven days to water her
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