by Robert Bloch
Valentine’s breathing slowed. Thank goodness that was over with! Now all was still except for the persistent roar of the engines. Perhaps if they’d only leave him alone, he might actually be able to get some sleep, too. Those pills should be working by now. He sank back, closing his eyes.
The drone of the engines deepened and so did the darkness behind his lowered lids. But the darkness wasn’t empty. Far in the distance a faint speck of light glimmered. He found himself following its movements as it fluttered erratically with the fitfulness of a firefly. And like a firefly, its glow grew stronger as it approached.
Only then did Valentine realize that what now loomed luminescently before him was neither light nor insect—it was the face of the dummy.
The open mouth moved, articulating a hoarse command:
“Please return to your grave! Extinguish all life! This is your captain shrieking—”
Now it was Valentine’s turn to open his mouth, but no shriek sounded in response. All he heard was a faint dry rasping deep in his own throat—the death rattle.
He stared up at the glowing face hovering before him. As he watched, the body below the face began to emerge from the darkness. To his surprise, Valentine noted that the dummy was clutching a Polaroid camera, raising it to eye-level in order to focus the lens on Valentine’s face.
It was then that he found his voice at last. “Don’t shoot!” he quavered. “Please don’t shoot me!”
But the light exploded before Valentine’s eyes. He sat up, blinking into sudden awareness.
The interior of the cabin presented its usual aspect—a mingling of white and shadow. There was no wall of darkness surrounding him, no incandescent image hovering over him, no camera aimed at his face.
Just a dream, he told himself, but I could swear it was the light that woke me.
Then, all at once, he saw the light again—as vivid and livid as he’d remembered. And now he knew its source.
Lightning. There, outside the window—
The plane began to buck violently and Valentine gripped the armrest. No doubt about it; the storm was getting worse.
He glanced down at his clutching hands, noting the whiteness of the knuckles. Well, here we go again—back to square one.
Perhaps the pills were working, or maybe he was just getting a little sense into his head at last; whatever the reason, he wouldn’t let this storm spook him again. Pulling his fingers free from the armrest, Valentine reached over to the pouch-pocket at the base of the seat ahead and pulled out a copy of the airline’s in-flight magazine. Switching on his overhead reading-light, he began to flick through the pages of the periodical.
The first thing that confronted him was a cigarette ad.
Valentine frowned. Much good that would do him now. Conscious of his need for nicotine, he ran the tip of his tongue over his dry upper lip and hastily turned the page to an article that bore a boldface heading—Life Insurance And You.
Sure, just what the doctor ordered. What good were his cigarettes when he wasn’t allowed to smoke them? And if this flying junk-heap crashed, there was no life insurance policy in the world big enough to cushion his fall.
Quickly he turned the page, only to find himself facing a telephone company advertisement. Need Help? Use The Yellow Pages!
Valentine scowled. Good advice, but no solution to his present problem. He was hardly in a position to pick up a phone, and even if he were able to do so, there were limits to the amount of aid he could expect. No operator would assist him in solving his problem, which, quite simply, was to find a way of getting off this plane alive.
Another sickening swoop shuddered through the aircraft, rattling the doors of the overhead compartments and sending the magazine sliding from his lap to the floor. As he stooped to retrieve it, a clap of thunder rose above the engine roar. Giving up, Valentine allowed his attention to wander to the window.
Squinting through his own reflection in the glass, he gazed out at the broad surface directly behind his seat-position. Through the murk, rain was pelting down on it in a torrent—each drop a dazzling diamond in the intermittent flicker of the beacon light at the wing’s outer edge. The same series of flashes gave him a glimpse of the two big jet engines suspended by pods under the wing itself.
Again the thunder sounded and as it did so Valentine started to turn away. There was no point in staring out at the storm; he’d had his fill of it and needed no further reminder of its presence or the peril it presented. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed before. There was an extraneous object—a dark mass clinging to the far wing pod, just barely visible in the blink of the beacon light.
He thrust his face close to the glass again, cupping his hands to his eyes as he peered through his reflection into the clouded darkness and the driving rain. He saw—
Nothing.
Nothing there at all. It must have been his imagination—some momentary visual disturbance. Not too surprising, considering the content of his fears and the number of pills he’d swallowed to combat them. Unless, of course, he was hallucinating.
From the far recesses of his mind came the long-forgotten lyrics of a popular song he hadn’t heard since he was a kid.
“I’m flying high—but I’ve got a feeling I’m falling—”
Valentine’s scowl deepened as he felt the childhood fear welling up within him. He rubbed his eyes and glanced through the window once more, seeking final reassurance.
And there it was again—the dark distortion clinging to the engine pod!
Turning, he twisted his neck toward the window of the seat directly behind him, striving to get a better view.
As if to assist him, a vivid flash of lightning streaked across the sky. Its momentary glare gave him the better look he sought.
Better?
No, this was worse—far worse.
In the instant flicker of the lightning’s greenish glare, he saw it all too clearly—the naked, apelike figure of a man, sitting astride the outboard engine!
Then the vision vanished in the darkness of the storm. Again the thunder rumbled.
And once more a jagged streak of green slashed through the sky. Valentine saw its source—the bolt of lightning issued from the creature’s outstretched arms!
At the same moment, the aircraft yawed erratically, and the movement sent Valentine’s head banging forward against the side of the window. For a split second his eyes closed involuntarily, responding to the impact. Forcing them open, he stared out once again. A flame of electrical current was streaming back across the wing. Straddling the outboard engine, the grotesque figure turned toward Valentine, its silvery face contorting in a grin.
Valentine flung himself back and his shout echoed through the confines of the cabin. “There’s something outside! I saw it!”
If it was attention he wanted, his outcry brought immediate results.
As his fellow passengers peered perplexedly around the sides of the seats before him, the senior stewardess came rushing down the aisle.
Halting beside him, she glanced down solicitously.
“Something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Valentine forced the words out between chattering teeth. “It’s a man. There’s a man out there on the wing!”
The staring circle of faces in the forward seats registered varying reactions of shock, puzzlement, and disbelief. The senior stewardess attempted a smile of reassurance. But from the seat behind him came the old lady’s strident cackle.
“Yes, I see him—all green and slimy!” She cackled again. “It’s my first husband!”
The old man seated beside her snorted in feigned disgust. “If it is, you drove him to it.”
The stewardess moved briskly to the row behind Valentine’s seat. Although she was standing beyond his range of vision, he could hear her voice quite clearly.
“Did you really see something out there?” she asked.
And now the old lady’s voice: “Of course not.
A man on the wing—what a howl!”
Another streak of greenish light exploded beyond Valentine’s window. He pressed his face against the pane quickly, just before the flash faded into darkness; just long enough for its final flicker to reveal the surface of the wing and the twin engines mounted at its extremity. The figure had disappeared.
Staring out at the darkness, Valentine’s eyes blinked in unison with the beacon lights. For a moment he stared at them in stunned silence, then turned to find the senior stewardess gazing down at him once again, a question in her eyes.
Valentine opened his mouth and the words came tumbling out. “There was lightning. At first I thought it was an animal out there—a dog or a cat. Then I realized it was a man. Maybe a technician trapped out there on takeoff.” He shook his head. “How could he survive? The air’s too thin. The wind blast—so cold—and he’s naked on top of it.” Again he shook his head, sighing softly. “I know it’s impossible.”
The stewardess nodded sympathetically. Momentarily it occurred to Valentine that she might very probably just be humoring him, but right now any expression of concern was welcomed. Suddenly the younger stewardess appeared beside her companion and reached forward to extend the paper cup she held in her hand.
“Here you are,” she said.
Valentine reached out for the cup and stared down suspiciously at its cloudy content. “What’s this?”
The girl smiled. “Just some warm milk.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing in it?”
The girl shook her head. But her companion produced the plastic pillbox from her jacket pocket. This time she didn’t wait to ask his permission; unscrewing the cap, she shook two capsules into the palm of her hand and held them out to him.
“I really think you should take them now. They’ll help.”
Valentine hesitated, conscious that both stewardesses were staring at him expectantly; conscious too that passengers in the forward seats were watching and waiting. Valentine sensed what they were thinking. Look at that flake back there. What do you think he’s going to do next?
The air in the cabin was cold, but Valentine felt the sudden warmth of his blush, the sudden moisture of tears welling up in his eyes.
Somehow he managed to smile. “Please forgive me,” he murmured. “That was a fool thing I pulled—”
At a loss for further words to cover his embarrassment, he swallowed the pills and washed them down with a sip of milk. Naturally he couldn’t expect any instantaneous reaction from the medication, but somehow the mere act seemed to ease his tension. He glanced up at his guardian angels, shaking his head and chuckling softly. “Holy smoke, when I hallucinate it’s a real production, isn’t it? A naked man crawling along a 707 wing in a storm at thirty-five thousand feet. Can you imagine?”
With a smile of relief the senior stewardess reached up to open the compartment above his seat and pulled down a blanket. Unfolding it quickly, she tucked it around Valentine’s waist as he took another sip of his milk. “Don’t feel embarrassed,” she told him. “Just try to relax and get a little sleep. We should be out of this disturbance soon.”
“Thanks.” Valentine settled back against the seat cushion and held out the empty cup. As she took it from him, he smiled again. “Funny, isn’t it? The tricks your mind can play on you. How you can see things that don’t exist.”
But as he spoke, he was seeing something that very obviously did exist. Peering past the stewardess, he had a clear view of her junior companion standing at the end of the aisle before the open cockpit door of the plane, deep in conversation with a uniformed man who was probably the copilot. For a moment the man glanced in his direction, then nodded and turned to move back through the open entrance. As the door closed behind him, the younger stewardess disappeared into the galley.
Valentine focused his gaze on the face of the attendant hovering above him. “No need for you to stay,” he said. “You must have other passengers to see to.”
The senior stewardess shook her head. “I’d be happy to sit with you until you fall asleep.”
The mother instinct. Valentine transformed his irritation into another smile. “Please, it would be easier if you weren’t here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I’m drowsy already. Look—”
Eyes closing, he let his head drop forward in a semblance of slumber.
Peeking up, he saw her smile at his little joke and start to move away. As she did so he called after her softly, “Miss St. John—”
“Yes?” She turned, halting.
When he called, he really had no idea just what it was he intended to say, but suddenly he knew his purpose. He’d made a spectacle of himself back there but that was over with now. The important thing was to put an end to this mother-and-child relationship and reassert his status as a calm, mature, reasonable adult. Once he realized his role, his words came easily.
“You know, don’t you, that should a plane crash, your chances of survival are significantly enhanced if you’re in the back.”
The senior stewardess nodded. “The plane won’t crash, Mr. Valentine, but you’re very kind to think of my welfare.”
“That’s okay,” Valentine said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. Good night.”
“Pleasant dreams.”
Pleasant dreams?
Not for me, Valentine told himself. Definitely not for me at a time like this. A familiar quotation came to him. “To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub.”
Hamlet; wasn’t it? Something of Shakespeare’s that he knew. Great poet. Poor guy, he must have had his troubles too, if he came up with such a line. But he hadn’t run into anything like this, that’s for sure. Whatever his problems might have been, he’d lucked out.
Shakespeare never traveled by plane. Never got himself trapped in a freak storm. Never found himself buried in the bowels of a mechanical monster. Never sat helplessly suspended thirty-five thousand feet in midair, thirty-five thousand feet above the ground, wondering whether or not he’d touch down safely at the end of his journey instead of crashing in a fiery explosion.
“To be, or not to be; that is the question.” Hamlet’s question, Shakespeare’s question, Valentine’s question. But Hamlet was speaking rhetorically and Shakespeare was toying with an idea; Valentine alone faced a situation that was all too real. Hamlet spoke his lines and left the stage. Valentine was left to contemplate the problem with all its perilous possibilities. Alone, surrounded by storm-tossed sky, alone with his fears.
Sleep was the only avenue of escape. He settled back against his pillow. Might as well get some rest, give the medication a chance to work. How many of those capsules had he taken? Valentine couldn’t remember; he only knew that he’d had more than enough. If he tried walking around now with all those pills inside him, he’d probably rattle.
But he wouldn’t walk. And on second thought, he wouldn’t sleep either—not if it meant running the risk of dreaming. Better to just rest, rest and relax, ride out the storm. No dreams, no more hallucinations.
Closing his eyes, he tried to close his mind as well. But the thought kept creeping in. Hallucinations. Could he be absolutely certain this was the answer?
According to the captain’s intercom message at the beginning of the flight, the skies were clear.
But the storm had come, and it was real. Even in his present, pleasant state, fully drugged and half dozing, Valentine was vaguely conscious that the plane was still pitching, and a rumble of thunder still sounded faintly in his ears.
Yes, the storm was real. And if this was so, could he be absolutely sure that what he’d seen out there on the wing was purely a product of his imagination, a figment of fear?
Valentine searched his memory for a dictionary definition. Figment—something made up, fabricated, or contrived. But how could a mind capable of retaining a dictionary’s definition also conjure up such a horrendous imaginary creation—a naked, manlike monstrosity riding on the wing t
hrough the stormy night like a witch straddling a broomstick?
There were no witches; that much Valentine knew. And no one traveled by broomstick, even under clear skies.
But skies, clear or cloudy, serene or storm-beset, held strange secrets. Another memory crossed his mind, weaving in its wake a trailing tremor of terror.
The Bermuda Triangle.
How many times had he read about that vast mysterious expanse of ocean in which hundreds of ships had vanished without a trace over the centuries, in which thousands of voyagers had unaccountably disappeared forever?
And not just in the distant past, either; the phenomenon was still occurring today. Only now it wasn’t just ships that disappeared. Within recent years their ranks had been swelled by countless numbers of aircraft that had taken off on routine flights, only to be lost in limbo. And not just single-passenger planes, either—among the missing were huge commercial flights. Even military missions had flown to their final fate somewhere in the vast expanse of sky above the Triangle.
Valentine vaguely recalled the strange story of a squadron—Navy, wasn’t it?—that had set out from the Florida coast on a routine training exercise, only to disappear without warning following frantic radio signals that indicated that the pilots had somehow lost their bearings in the midst of strange cloud-formations suddenly surrounding them. When radio signals abruptly faded, a search party was dispatched—a larger aircraft, carrying a crew of fourteen. It too had vanished into empty air.
But had the air been empty?
Nobody knew. For that matter, there were still hundreds of thousands of square miles of the earth’s surface; impenetrable jungles, desolate deserts, teeming jungles, mist-shrouded mountains, and forever-frozen polar wastes, which remained unexplored. And the oceans, roaring relentlessly over 70 percent of the globe, had still to yield their submerged secrets to the eyes of men.
Through the years, tens of thousands of sailing ships had made a safe passage through the Bermuda Triangle, tens of thousands had traversed the aerial routes above it without incident. But still the fact remained: so many ships had sunk into the sea’s dank depths; so many planes had plunged into oblivion in the shrouded skies above.