Peter Bailey was exactly the sort of flier for whom the tables had been invented. There were undoubtedly doctors all over America who were exemplary pilots. Bailey wasn’t one of them. Quick and decisive in the operating theater when a patient lay before him with a window of skull cut away to reveal the pinkish-gray brain tissue, as delicate as a dancer with scalpel and laser knife, he was a hamfisted pilot who constantly violated assigned altitudes, FAA safety rules, and his own flight patterns. He was a bold pilot, but with only two hundred hours on his license, he could by no stretch of the imagination be called an old pilot. His status as an assigned risk only confirmed the old saw: a pilot may be one or the other, but no pilot is both.
He was flying alone that day from Teterboro outside New York to Bangor. At Bangor he would rent a car and drive to Derry Home Hospital. He had been asked to consult in the case of young Hillman Brown. Because the case was interesting and the price right (and because he had heard good things about the golf course in Orono), he had agreed.
The weather had been clear the whole way, the air smooth. Bailey had enjoyed the trip tremendously. As usual, his logbook was botched, he had missed one VOR beacon entirely and had decided another must be on the blink (he had hit the frequency dial with his elbow), he had wandered from his assigned altitude of 11,000 feet as high as 15,000 and as low as 6,000, and had once again avoided killing anyone . . . a blessing he was unfortunately too stupid to count.
He also wandered well off his flight-path, and so happened to overfly Haven, where a great blink of light suddenly flicked into his eye; it was as if someone had just flashed the lid of the world’s biggest Crisco can up at him.
“What in the Sam Hill—”
He looked down and saw a tantalizing glimmer of that brightness. He might have dismissed it, might have gone on and survived to fight yet another day (or perhaps to collide with a fully loaded airliner), but he was early and intrigued. He banked the Hawk and went back.
“Now where—”
It flashed again, bright enough to dazzle a blue crescent of afterimage onto his eyes. Ripples of light ran across the top of the pilot’s cabin.
“Jee-zus!”
There, below him in a clearing in the gray-green woods, was a huge silver object. He could tell little about it before it was gone again under the port wing.
At 6,000 feet for the second time that day, Bailey banked back again. His head had begun to ache—he noticed this and dismissed it as excitement. His first thought had been that it was a water-tower, but no one would locate a water-tower that big in the woods.
He overflew the object again, this time at 4,000. He had the Hawk throttled back as far as he dared (which was a good deal further than a more experienced pilot would have dared do, but the Hawk was a good plane and it forgave him).
Artifact, he thought this time, almost sick with excitement. A great dish-shaped artifact in the earth . . . or some government thing? But if it was government, how come it wasn’t covered with a camouflage net? And the ground around it had been excavated—from up here, the trench cut into the earth was perfectly clear.
Bailey determined to overfly it again—hell, he’d buzz it!—and then his eye fell on his gauges and his heart took an unsteady leap. His compass was winding itself around in big stupid circles, the tank indicators were flashing red. The altimeter suddenly ran up to 22,000 feet, stopped briefly, and then dropped back to dead zero.
The Hawk’s husky 195-horsepower motor gave a terrifying hitch. The nose dipped. Bailey’s heart did the same. His head throbbed. In front of his bulging eyes needles were whirling, lights flashed from green to red like pygmy traffic signals, and the altitude warning beeper, which was supposed to tell a bemused pilot Wake up, dummy, you are about to run into a large immovable object called Mother Earth, began to sound, even though it wasn’t supposed to go off until the plane passed through five hundred and Bailey’s own eyes told him the Hawk was still at four thousand feet, perhaps a bit more. He looked at the digital thermometer which recorded the outside air temperature. It blinked from 47 to 58, then to 5. It paused there for a moment, then showed 999. The red numerals held there, pulsing distractedly, and then the thermometer shorted out.
“What in Christ’s name is going on here?” Bailey screamed, and was stupidly amazed to see one of his front teeth fly out of his mouth, bounce off his airspeed indicator, and fall on the floor.
The engine hitched again.
“Fuck,” he whispered. He was now sick with fright. Blood from the socket where his tooth had been trickled down his chin. A drop splashed on his Lacoste shirt.
The gleaming thing in the earth passed under his wings again.
The Hawk’s engine ran choppily and stalled. It began to lose altitude. Forgetting all his training, Bailey hauled up on the wheel as hard as he could, but the silent plane didn‘t, couldn’t, answer. Bailey’s head pounded and thudded. The Cessna dropped to 4,000 feet . . . 3,500 ... 3,000. Bailey groped out with one hand like a blind man and thumbed the button marked EMERGENCY RESTART. Hi-test av-gas boomed hollowly in the Hawk’s carbs. The propeller jerked, then stopped again. Now the Cessna had slid down to 2,500 feet. It passed over the Old Derry Road close enough for Bailey to be able to see the service board in front of the Methodist church.
“Motherfuck,” he whispered. “I’m gonna die.”
He pulled the choke all the way out and hit the restart button again. The engine coughed, ran for a while, then began to stutter.
“No!” Bailey screamed. One eye ruptured and filled up with blood. The blood sheeted thinly down his left cheek. In his panicky, terrorized state, he didn’t even notice. He slammed the choke in again. “No, don’t you stall, you ratshit plane!”
The engine roared; the propeller blurred into invisibility with a wedge of reflected sunshine in it. Bailey hauled up on the wheel. The overburdened Hawk began to lug again.
“Ratshit plane! Ratshit plane! Ratshit plane!” he screamed. His left eye was now full of blood and he was on some level aware that the world seemed to have taken on a strange pinkish aspect, but if he’d had the time or inclination to think about this at all, he would have thought it no more than rage at this idiotic situation.
He let off on the wheel; the Hawk, allowed to climb at an angle which was almost sane, began to buckle down to its job again. Haven Village passed beneath it, and Bailey was aware of people looking up at him. He was low enough so someone could take his number if they thought of it. Go ahead! he thought grimly. Go ahead, take it, because when I finish with Cessna Corporation, every goddam stockholder they have is gonna be standing in his underwear! I’m going to sue those negligent sons of bitches for every banana-skin they’ve got!
The Hawk was rising smoothly now, its engine smooth and sweet. Bailey’s head was trying to tear itself right off his shoulders, but an idea suddenly came to him—an idea of such stupefying simplicity and staggering ramifications that everything else was driven from his mind. He understood nothing less than the physiological basis of bicamerality in the human brain. This led to an instant understanding of race memory, not as a hazy Jungian concept but as a function of recombinant DNA and biological imprinting. And with this came an understanding of what the increased millierg generating capacity of the corpus callosum during periods of increased ductless-gland activity, which had puzzled students of the human brain for thirty years, actually meant.
Peter Bailey suddenly understood that time travel—actual time travel—was in his grasp.
At the same instant, a large portion of his own brain exploded.
White light flashed in his head—white light exactly like the reflection that had winked at him from that object in the woods.
If he had collapsed forward, pushing the wheel in, the people of Haven would have had another mess on their hands. But instead he fell backward, head lolling on his neck, blood running from his ears. He stared up at the ceiling of the pilot’s compartment with an expression of stupendous, terminal surprise printed on his
face.
If the Cessna’s autopilot had been engaged, it would almost certainly have flown serenely on until it ran out of fuel. Weather conditions were optimum, and such things have happened before. As it was, it flew along almost dead level at 5,500 feet for five minutes anyway. The radio squawked at the dead neurosurgeon, telling him to get his ass up to his assigned altitude right now.
Over Derry a wind current threw the plane into a gentle bank. It flew in a long, looping arc toward Newport. The bank grew steeper, turned into a spiral. The spiral became a spin. A kid fishing off a bridge on Route 7 looked up and saw a plane falling out of the sky, and whirling like a screw-auger as it did. He stared open-mouthed as it crashed in Ezra Dockery’s north field and exploded in a pillar of flame.
“Holy jeezum!” the kid yelled. He dropped his fishing-pole and ran for the Newport Mobil up the road to call the fire department. Shortly after he left, a bass snatched his worm and pulled his pole into the water. The kid never found the pole, but in the excitement of fighting the grass-fire in Dockery’s field and pulling the crispy pilot out of the remains of the Cessna, he barely noticed.
10
Saturday, August 6th:
Newt and Dick were sitting in the Haven Lunch. The newspaper was between them. The lead story was another outbreak of hostilities in the Mideast; the story that concerned them that morning was below the fold. NEUROSURGEON KILLED IN LIGHT PLANE CRASH, the headline read. There was a photo of the plane. Nothing recognizable remained of the once beautiful Cessna Hawk except its tail.
Their breakfasts were pushed to one side, mostly untouched. Molly Fenderson, Beach’s niece, was cooking now that Beach was dead. Molly was a helluva nice girl, but her fried eggs looked like broiled assholes. Dick thought they tasted that way, too, although he’d never actually eaten an asshole, broiled or any other way.
Might have, Newt said.
Dick looked at him, eyebrows raised.
They put damn near anything in hot dogs. Least, that’s what I read once.
Dick’s gut rolled over. He told Newt to shut his fucking gob.
Newt paused, then said: Must have been twenty, thirty people seen that ijit come low acrost the village.
All from town? Dick asked.
Yes.
Then we have no problem, do we?
No, I don’t think so, Newt replied, sipping coffee. At least, not unless it happens again.
Dick shook his head. Shouldn’t do. Paper says he was off-course.
Yeah. So it said. You ready?
Sure.
They left without paying. Money had ceased to hold much interest to the residents of Haven. There were several large cardboard cartons of cash in Dick Allison’s basement, carelessly tucked into the old coal-hold—twenties, tens, and ones, mostly. Haven was a small town. When people needed cash for something, they came and got some. The house was unlocked. Besides telepathic typewriters and water heaters that ran on the power of collapsing molecules, Haven had discovered a nearly perfect form of collectivism.
On the sidewalk in front of the Lunch, they stared toward the town hall. The brick clock-tower was flickering uneasily. One moment it was there, as solid as the Taj Mahal, if not so beautiful. The next, there was only blue sky above the jagged ruin of the tower’s base. Then it would come back. Its long morning shadow fluttered like the shadow of a window-shade blown by an intermittent wind. Newt found the fact that sometimes the shadow of the clock-tower was there when the tower itself was not, particularly disturbing.
Christ! If I looked at that sucker too long, I’d go batshit, Dick said.
Newt asked if someone was taking care of the deterioration.
Tommy Jacklin and Hester Brookline have had to go up to Derry, Dick said. They’re supposed to go to about five different service stations, plus both auto-parts stores. I sent damn near seven hundred bucks with them, told them to come back with as many as twenty car batteries, if they could. But they’re supposed to spread the buy around. There’s people in some of the towns around here that think folks have gone battery-crazy in Haven.
Tommy Jacklin and Hester Brookline? Newt asked dubiously. Christ, they’re just kids! Has Tommy got a driver’s license, Dick?
No, Dick said reluctantly. But he’s fifteen and he’s got a permit and he drives real safe. Besides, he’s big. Looks older than he really is. They’ll be okay.
Christ, it’s so fucking risky!
It is, but—
They communed in thoughts that were more images than words; this was happening more and more in Haven, as the people in town learned this strange new thought-language. For all of his misgivings, Newt understood the basic problem that had caused Dick to send a couple of underage kids to Derry in the Fannins’ pickup truck. They needed batteries, needed them, but it was getting harder and harder for the people who lived in Haven to leave Haven. If a codger like Dave Rutledge or an old coot like John Harley tried it, he would be dead—and probably rotting—before he got to the Derry city line. It would take younger men like Newt and Dick a slightly longer time, but they would also go ... and probably in agony, because of the physical changes that had begun in Bobbi’s shed. It didn’t surprise either man that Hilly Brown was in a coma, and he had left when things were just starting to really roll. Tommy Jacklin was fifteen, Hester Brookline a well-developed thirteen. They at least had youth on their side, and could hope to leave and come back alive without the equivalent of NASA spacesuits to protect them from what was now an alien and inimical atmosphere. Such equipment would have been out of the question even if they’d had it. They probably could have cobbled something together, but if a couple of folks showed up at the Napa auto-parts store in Derry wearing moonsuits, there might be a few questions. Or more than a few.
I don’t like it, Newt said at last.
Hell, I don’t either, Dick replied. I’m not going to have a minute’s peace until they get back, and I’ve got ole Doc Warwick parked out by the Haven-Troy line to take care of em just as soon as they do—
If they do.
Ayuh ... if. I think they will, but they’ll be hurting. What kind of problems do you expect?
Dick shook his head. He didn’t know, and Doc Warwick refused to even guess . . . except to ask Dick in a cross mental voice what he, Dick, thought would happen to a salmon if it decided to ride a bike upstream to the spawning grounds instead of swimming.
Well . . . Newt said doubtfully.
Well, nothing, Dick returned. We can’t leave that thing—he nodded toward the oscillating clock-tower—the way it is.
Newt returned: We’re almost down to the hatchway now. I think we could leave it.
Maybe. Maybe not. But we need batteries for other things, and you know it. And we need to keep being careful. You know that, too.
Don’t teach your grammy to suck eggs, Dick.
(Fu)
Fuck that, asshole, was what Newt had been about to say, but he squashed it, although he found more to dislike about Dick Allison with every passing day. The truth was, Haven ran on batteries now, just like a kid’s toy car from FAO Schwarz. And they kept needing more, and bigger ones, and mail-order was not only too slow, it was the sort of thing that might send up a warning flag to someone somewhere. You could never tell.
All in all, Newt Berringer was a troubled man. They had survived the plane-crash; if something happened to Tommy and Hester, could they survive that?
He didn’t know. He only knew he wouldn’t have much peace until the kids were back in Haven, where they belonged.
11
Sunday, August 7th:
Gardener was at the ship, looking at it, trying to decide—again—if any good could come of this mess . . . and if not, if there was any way out. He had heard the light plane two days before, although he had been in the house and had come out a moment too late to see it on its third pass. Three passes was just about two too many; he had been pretty sure the pilot had spotted the ship and the excavation. The thought had afforded Gardener a strange, b
itter relief. Then, yesterday, he had seen the story in the paper. You didn’t have to be a college graduate to see the connection. Poor old Dr. Bailey had wandered off-course, and that leftover from the space armada of Ming the Merciless had stripped his gears.
Did that make him, Jim Gardener, an accessory to murder? It might, and, wifeshooter or not, Gard didn’t care for the thought.
Freeman Moss, the dour woodsman from Albion, hadn’t shown up this morning—Gard supposed the ship had blown his fuses as it had those of the others before him. Gard was alone for the first time since Bobbi had disappeared. On the surface, that seemed to open things up. But when you looked deeper, the same old conundrums remained.
The story of the dead neurosurgeon and the crashed plane had been bad, but to Gard’s mind, the story above the fold—the one Newt and Dick had ignored—was worse. The Mideast was getting ready to explode again, and if there was shooting this time, some of it might be nuclear. The Union of Concerned Scientists, those happy folks who kept the Black Clock, had advanced the hands to two minutes to nuclear midnight yesterday, the paper reported. Happy days were here again, all right. The ship could maybe pull the pin on all that . . . but was that what Freeman Moss, Kyle Archinbourg, Bozie, and all the rest of them wanted? Sometimes Gard felt a sickening surety that cooling out the powderkeg the planet was sitting on was the last thing the New and Improved Haven was concerned with. And so?
He didn’t know. Sometimes being a telepathic zero was a pain in the ass.
His eye moved to the pumping machinery squashed into the mud at the edge of the trench. Working at the ship had previously been a matter of dust and dirt and rocks and stumps that wouldn’t come up until you were just about half-crazy with frustration. Now it was wet work—very wet work indeed. The last couple of nights he had gone home with wet clay in his hair, between his toes, and in the crack of his ass. Mud was bad, but clay was worse. Clay stuck.
The pumping equipment was the strangest, ugliest conglomeration yet, but it worked. It also weighed tons, but the mostly silent Freeman Moss had transported it from Bobbi’s dooryard all by himself . . . it had taken him most of Thursday and about five hundred batteries to do it, but he had done it, something which would have taken an ordinary construction crew a week or more to accomplish.
Stephen King Page 53