He and Shadia had a certain likeness: they were thin and quietly-moving people with shut faces and eyes that saw everything and Showed nothing. Zade seemed a man of action, a man of iron, with reasons for his actions and some brand of dim political philosophy to push him along; but in the other two I sensed an unnaturalness, the kind- of sadomasochistic force that had once sent millions of their fellow humans into the gas chambers. And somewhere in it was also the death wish and that was why they had stayed.
Sweat on my palms. I wiped it off.
Tick.
I looked down.
There was no need to tell them.
A stray thought sparked across my mind: they should have let the girl go. It was all I'd asked.
Final thought-flash: roses for Moira.
I could hear the click of the four-second alarm sounding but I'd already begun moving and I picked the thing up and aimed for the centre of the space outlined by the solid configurations at the other end of the aisle. The sweat on the pads of my fingers had caused the plastic case to slip a little but I'd allowed for that and it left my hand with an up-swing designed to drop it seven or eight feet behind where Zade was standing because if I could get it to burst at that exact spot a considerable degree of blast would vent through the main doorway and reduce the enormous air pressure inside the fuselage.
Final impressions aural and visuaclass="underline" Zade shouting something and Shadia's gun coming up with the flame burst spreading at the muzzle.
Then I was down on the floor with my head buried in my crossed arms and my legs drawn clear of the aisle. I was thinking about Dr Costa: I'd told him what to do when he saw me pick the thing up and he'd understood. He and the girl were three rows aft of where I was lying and would experience minimally less blast, but it was relative and it would have been pointless to try working out the chances for any of us.
Popping noise: Shadia's gun again.
Then the Boeing shuddered to the shock of the blast and my hearing was blocked off as the detonation wave drove through the length of the fuselage and brought debris with it to smash against the panels of the aft bulkhead.
Someone screaming.
Everything red for an instant and the air burning the throat: a sensation of being somewhere else, spinning in the vortex of some vast cataclysm, with the reason struggling to survive and the forebrain desperate to analyse data. Then memory making its demands: the memory of intentions to be carried out if there were a chance left for us.
Thick smoke billowing and I rolled over and got up and smashed into one of the seats and went down and got up again and lurched to the place where Costa and the girl had been sheltering. But they were in the aisle ahead of me and the rear emergency door swung inwards as he wrenched at the lever and then the girl fell down and I got hold of her and dragged her on to her feet and pushed her through the opening and dropped after her.
The rescue people had positioned something for us, some kind of chute — I'd asked them to wheel up some flight steps but I suppose the height was wrong for the tail end. I hit the ground and saw Costa with the girl, helping her along in a limping jog-trot, then the main tanks blew and we all began running as hard as we could through the fire-foam that was spreading towards us.
Sirens wailing, like the cry of the dead.