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　　〃I　still　do。〃
　　〃Gloves；　eyeshades　and　socks。〃
　　〃You　know　my　flaws。　You　always　did。　I'm　ultrasensitive　to　many　things。〃
　　〃Sunlight；　air；　food；　water；　sex。〃
　　〃Carcinogenic；　every　one　of　them。〃
　　〃What's　the　family　business　in　Boston　all　about？〃
　　〃I　have　to　reassure　my　mother　that　Malcolm　isn't　dead。　She's　taken　quite　a　shine　to　him；　for　whatever　reason。〃
　　〃Why　does　she　think　he's　dead？〃
　　〃When　Malcolm　goes　into　deep　cover；　it's　as　though　he　never　existed。　He　disappears　not　only　here　and　now　but　retroactively。　No　trace　of　the　man　remains。　I　sometimes　wonder　if　the　man　I'm　married　to　is　in　fact　Malcolm　Hunt　or　a　pletely　different　person　who　is　himself　operating　under　deep　cover。　It's　frankly　worrisome。　I　don't　know　which　half　of　Malcolm's　life　is　real；　which　half　is　intelligence。　I'm　hoping　Bee　can　shed　some　light。〃
　　Traffic　lights　swayed　on　cables　in　a　sudden　gust。　This　was　the　city's　main　street；　a　series　of　discount　stores；　check…cashing　places；　wholesale　outlets。　A　tall　old　Moorish　movie　theater；　now　remarkably　a　mosque。　Blank　structures　called　the　Terminal　Building；　the　Packer　Building；　the　merce　Building。　How　close　this　was　to　a　classic　photography　of　regret。
　　〃A　gray　day　in　Iron　City；〃　I　said。　〃We　may　as　well　go　back　to　the　airport。〃
　　〃How　is　Hitler？'！
　　〃Fine；　solid；　dependable。〃
　　〃You　look　good；　Tuck。〃
　　〃I　don't　feel　good。〃
　　〃You　never　felt　good。　You're　the　old　Tuck。　You　were　always　the　old　Tuck。　We　loved　each　other；　didn't　we？　We　told　each　other　everything；　within　the　limits　of　one's　preoccupation　with　breeding　and　tact。　Malcolm　tells　me　nothing。　Who　is　he？　What　does　he　do？〃
　　She　sat　with　her　legs　tucked　under　her；　facing　me；　and　flicked　ashes　into　her　shoes；　which　sat　on　the　rubber　mat。
　　〃Wasn't　it　marvelous　to　grow　up　tall　and　straight；　among　geldings　and　mares；　with　a　daddy　who　wore　blue　blazers　and　crisp　gray　flannels？〃
　　〃Don't　ask　me。〃
　　〃Mother　used　to　stand　in　the　arbor　with　an　armful　of　cut　flowers。　Just　stand　there；　being　what　she　was。〃
　　At　the　airport　we　waited　in　a　mist　of　plaster　dust；　among　exposed　wires；　mounds　of　rubble。　Half　an　hour　before　Bee　was　due　to　arrive；　the　passengers　from　another　flight　began　filing　through　a　drafty　tunnel　into　the　arrivals　area。　They　were　gray　and　stricken；　they　were　stooped　over　in　weariness　and　shock；　dragging　their　hand　luggage　across　the　floor。　Twenty；　thirty；　forty　people　came　out；　without　a　word　or　look；　keeping　their　eyes　to　the　ground。
　　Some　limped；　some　wept。　More　came　through　the　tunnel；　adults　with　whimpering　children；　old　people　trembling；　a　black　minister　with　his　collar　askew；　one　shoe　missing。　Tweedy　helped　a　woman　with　two　small　kids。　I　approached　a　young　man；　a　stocky　fellow　with　a　mailman's　cap　and　beer　belly；　wearing　a　down　vest；　and　he　looked　at　me　as　if　I　didn't　belong　in　his　space…time　dimension　but　had　crossed　over　illegally；　made　a　rude　incursion。　I　forced　him　to　stop　and　face　me；　asked　him　what　had　happened　up　there。　As　people　kept　filing　past；　he　exhaled　wearily。　Then　he　nodded；　his　eyes　steady　on　mine；　full　of　a　gentle　resignation。
　　The　plane　had　lost　power　in　all　three　engines；　dropped　from　thirty…four　thousand　feet　to　twelve　thousand　feet。　Something　like　four　miles。　When　the　steep　glide　began；　people　rose；　fell；　collided；　swam　in　their　seats。　Then　the　serious　screaming　and　moaning　began。　Almost　immediately　a　voice　from　the　flight　deck　was　heard　on　the　inter：　〃We're　falling　out　of　the　sky！　We're　going　down！　We're　a　silver　gleaming　death　machine！〃　This　outburst　struck　the　passengers　as　an　all　but　total　breakdown　of　authority；　petence　and　mand　presence　and　it　brought　on　a　round　of　fresh　and　desperate　wailing。
　　Objects　were　rolling　out　of　the　galley；　the　aisles　were　full　of　drinking　glasses；　utensils；　coats　and　blankets。　A　stewardess　pinned　to　the　bulkhead　by　the　sharp　angle　of　descent　was　trying　to　find　the　relevant　passage　in　a　handbook　titled　〃Manual　of　Disasters。〃　Then　there　was　a　second　male　voice　from　the　flight　deck；　this　one　remarkably　calm　and　precise；　making　the　passengers　believe　there　was　someone　in　charge　after　all；　an　element　of　hope：　〃This　is　American　two…one…three　to　the　cockpit　voice　recorder。　Now　we　know　what　it's　like。　It　is　worse　than　we'd　ever　imagined。　They　didn't　prepare　us　for　this　at　the　death　simulator　in　Denver。　Our　fear　is　pure；　so　totally　stripped　of　distractions　and　pressures　as　to　be　a　form　of　transcendental　meditation。　In　less　than　three　minutes　we　will　touch　down；　so　to　speak。　They　will　find　our　bodies　in　some　smoking　field；　strewn　about　in　the　grisly　attitudes　of　death。　I　love　you；　Lance。〃　This　time　there　was　a　brief　pause　before　the　mass　wailing　remenced。　Lance？　What　kind　of　people　were　in　control　of　this　aircraft？　The　crying　took　on　a　bitter　and　disillusioned　tone。
　　As　the　man　in　the　down　vest　told　the　story；　passengers　from　the　tunnel　began　gathering　around　us。　No　one　spoke；　interrupted；　tried　to　embellish　the　account。
　　Aboard　the　gliding　craft；　a　stewardess　crawled　down　the　aisle；　over　bodies　and　debris；　telling　people　in　each　row　to　remove　their　shoes；　remove　sharp　objects　from　their　pockets；　assume　a　fetal　position。　At　the　other　end　of　the　plane；　someone　was　wrestling　with　a　flotation　device。　Certain　elements　in　the　crew　had　decided　to　pretend　that　it　was　not　a　crash　but　a　crash　landing　that　was　seconds　away。　After　all；　the　difference　between　the　two　is　only　one　word。　Didn't　this　suggest　that　the　two　forms　of　flight　termination　were　more　or　less　interchangeable？　How　much　could　one　word　matter？　An　encouraging　question　under　the　circumstances；　if　you　didn't　think　about　it　too　long；　and　there　was　no　time　to　think　right　now。　The　basic　difference　between　a　crash　and　a　crash　landing　seemed　to　be　that　you　could　sensibly　prepare　for　a　crash　landing；　which　is　exactly　what　they　were　trying　to　do。　The　news　spread　through　the　plane；　the　term　was　repeated　in　row　after　row。　〃Crash　landing；　crash　landing。〃　They　saw　how　easy　it　was；　by　adding　one　word；　to　maintain　a　grip　on　the　future；　to　extend　it　in　consciousness　if　not　in　actual　fact。　They　patted　themselves　for　ballpoint　pens；　went　fetal　in　their　seats。
　　By　the　time　the　narrator　reached　this　point　in　his　account；　many　people　were　crowded　around；　not　only　people　who'd　just　emerged　from　the　tunnel　but　also　those　who'd　been　among　the　first　to　disembark。　They'd　e　back　to　listen。　They　were　not　yet　ready　to　disperse；　to　reinhabit　their　earthbound　bodies；　but　wanted　to　linger　with　their　terror；　keep　it　separate　and　intact　for　just　a　while　longer。　More　people　drifted　toward　us；　milled　about；　close　to　the　entire　planeload。　They　were　content　to　let　the　capped　and　vested　man　speak　on　their　behalf。　No　one　disputed　his　account　or　tried　to　add　individual　testimony。　It　was　as　though　they　were　being　told　of　an　event　they　hadn't　personally　been　involved　in。　They　were　interested　in　what　he　said；　even　curious；　but　also　clearly　detached。　They　trusted　him　to　tell　them　what　they'd　said　and　felt。
　　It　was　at　this　point　in　the　descent；　as　the　term　〃crash　landing〃　spread　through　the　plane；　with　a　pronounced　vocal　stress　on　the　second　word；　that　passengers　in　first　class　came　scrambling　and　clawing　through　the　curtains；　literally　climbing　their　way　into　the　tourist　section　in　order　to　avoid　being　the　first　to　strike　the　ground。　There　were　those　in　tourist　who　felt　they　ought　to　be　made　to　go　back。　This　sentiment　was　expressed　not　so　much　in　words　and　actions　as　in　terrible　and　inarticulate　sounds；　mainly　cattle　noises；　an　urgent　and　force…fed　lowing。　Suddenly　the　engines　restarted。　Just　like　that。　Power；　stability；　control。　The　passengers；　prepared　for　impact；　were　slow　to　adjust　to　the　new　wave　of　information。　New　sounds；　a　different　flight　path；　a　sense　of　being　encased　in　solid　tubing　and　not　some　polyurethane　wrap。　The　smoking　sign　went　on；　an　international　hand　with　a　cigarette。　Stewardesses　appeared　with　scented　towelettes　for　cleaning　blood　and　vomit。　People　slowly　came　out　of　their　fetal　positions；　sat　back　limply。　Four　miles　of　prime…time　terror。　No　one　knew　what　to　say。　Being　alive　was　a　richness　of　sensation。　Dozens　of　things；　hundreds　of　things。　The　first　officer　walked　down　the　aisle；　smilin