again.

"Coffee, Ray?"

"Yeah, I guess so." I took the bottle from Alice and wondered whether my
face looked as glum as hers.

"They shouldn't salt butter," Pop asserted. "It makes it lousy for
shaving."

"It was the _best_ butter," Alice said.

"Yeah," I said. "The Dormouse, when they buttered the watch."

It may be true that feeble humor is better than none. I don't know.

"What are you two yakking about?" Pop demanded.

"A book we both read," I told him.

"Either of you writers?" Pop asked with sudden interest. "Some of the
boys think we should have a book about us. I say it's too soon, but they
say we might all die off or something. Whoa, Jenny! Easy does it.
Gently, please!"

That last remark was by way of recognizing that the plane had started an
authoritative turn to the left. I got a sick and cold feeling. This was
it.

Pop sheathed his knife and gave his face a final rub. Alice belted on
her satchel. I reached for my knapsack, but I was staring through the
viewport, dead ahead.

The haze lightened faintly, three times. I remembered the St. Elmo's
fire that had flamed from the cracking plant.

"Pop," I said--almost whined, to be truthful, "why'd the bugger ever
have to land here in the first place? He was rushing stuff they needed
bad at Atla-Hi--why'd he have to break his trip?"

"That's easy," Pop said. "He was being a bad boy. At least that's my
theory. He was supposed to go straight to Atla-Hi, but there was
somebody he wanted to check up on first. He stopped here to see his
girlfriend. Yep, his girlfriend. She tried to warn him off--that's my
explanation of the juice that flared out of the cracking plant and
interfered with his landing, though I'm sure she didn't intend the last.
By the way, whatever she turned on to give him the warning must still be
turned on. But Grayl came on down in spite of it."

* * * * *

Before I could assimilate that, the seven deformed gas tanks
materialized in the haze. We got the freeway in our sights and steadied
and slowed and kept slowing. The plane didn't graze the cracking plant
this time, though I'd have sworn it was going to hit it head on. When I
saw we _weren't_ going to hit it, I wanted to shut my eyes, but I
couldn't.

The stain was black now and the Pilot's body was thicker than I
remembered--bloated. But that wouldn't last long. Three or four vultures
were working on it.

CHAPTER 7

_Here now in h