right rudder to bank right. Bank means turn. Easy does it— she's very responsive. You don't need both hands on the yoke—loosen your grip, you're choking it to death. Good. Let's bank left now, heading zero-three-five. Okay, you're doing fine—bring the yoke back level, keep the nose on the horizon. Shannon, you're a natural. Are those goosebumps on your arms?"
"Yes. You're sure you aren't doing anything—I'm really flying this airplane?"
"You sure are."
"Where are we?"
"You don't have to keep watching the nose, we won't go into a power dive." He studies a map on a clipboard. "Cruising 175 at 65 percent power and we've got a tail wind according to the weather operator, so—we should be thirty miles due west of Emerson and coming up on—well, in another few minutes you'll see the lights of Great Bend off your left wingtip, and Hays to the northwest.
Hang a right at the Pawnee reservation, maintain one-five-zero over the buffalo wallow, and we'll be smack in the middle of nowhere."
"Ha ha ," Shannon says. "I love your sense of humor."
"A great night for sight-seeing. See that freight train on the Union Pacific? Four diesels. Must be a mile long."
"This sure does beat roller-skating."
Rob gets out a book of star maps and for half an hour, as they continue west on autopilot toward Colorado, the clusters of town lights beneath them becoming fewer as the sky seems to grow ever-more dense with nebulae, they search for constellations anchored by suns of immense magnitude. With their heads close together, dazed by infinity, by each other's breath, they kiss; and Shannon wonders what it would be like, her first time, up here where she feels far-flung, released from earthbound restraints, from common sense. But Robert's kisses are almost polite and he doesn't touch her suggestively; the momentary notion of recklessness fades with the heat around her breastbone.
Rob makes a course correction. On a whim he reaches behind him for the Stetson and places it on her head. Grinning, Shannon tilts the brim down toward her nose. They hold hands.
"My mother was a nut," Robert says. "I don't mean she was in an institution or anything, she just wasn't conventional. She had such enthusiasm, an intensity that just took her out of this world sometimes. And when she was like that, she said she was air-dancing. And I'd ask her what the music was like for air-dancing—Smetana? Berlioz? Tchaikovsky? Those are all my favorites. She'd just smile and say she didn't know, she hadn't heard it yet, but some day she knew she would. Mother either jumped or fell out of the gondola of a hot-air balloon at forty thousand feet; she fell about eight miles. Happened over the Provencal Alps in Southern France. They never located her body."
"That's awful."
"Is it? Awful is dying in bed when you're old and nobody cares anything about you any more . And you've lived your life but you don't know what for. I figured this out once. A body in free-fall travels up to two hundred feet a second. Which means she was air-dancing for almost three and a half, maybe four minutes. I hope she heard it—the music. At least God must have kept her company on the way down, talked to my mother, told her some of the secrets of the universe the rest of us will never find out as long as we're on this earth. That's only fair, don't you think? I believe my mother knew something, instinctively: God doesn't trust us until we trust Him. And we're willing to prove that we trust Him by doing something extraordinary, impossible—impossible for most people, I mean."
"I guess I've never thought of God that
way."
"Well, probably I'm— unconventional, like my mother was. I just got to thinking about her again, as soon as I met you. Mother would have liked you. I was only twelve years old when she died. Do you know what I did, for the first time, the night I heard she was dead? I shouldn't tell you—you'll be disgusted with me."
"No, I won't. But I think I know."
"After I did it
"Yes. You're sure you aren't doing anything—I'm really flying this airplane?"
"You sure are."
"Where are we?"
"You don't have to keep watching the nose, we won't go into a power dive." He studies a map on a clipboard. "Cruising 175 at 65 percent power and we've got a tail wind according to the weather operator, so—we should be thirty miles due west of Emerson and coming up on—well, in another few minutes you'll see the lights of Great Bend off your left wingtip, and Hays to the northwest.
Hang a right at the Pawnee reservation, maintain one-five-zero over the buffalo wallow, and we'll be smack in the middle of nowhere."
"Ha ha ," Shannon says. "I love your sense of humor."
"A great night for sight-seeing. See that freight train on the Union Pacific? Four diesels. Must be a mile long."
"This sure does beat roller-skating."
Rob gets out a book of star maps and for half an hour, as they continue west on autopilot toward Colorado, the clusters of town lights beneath them becoming fewer as the sky seems to grow ever-more dense with nebulae, they search for constellations anchored by suns of immense magnitude. With their heads close together, dazed by infinity, by each other's breath, they kiss; and Shannon wonders what it would be like, her first time, up here where she feels far-flung, released from earthbound restraints, from common sense. But Robert's kisses are almost polite and he doesn't touch her suggestively; the momentary notion of recklessness fades with the heat around her breastbone.
Rob makes a course correction. On a whim he reaches behind him for the Stetson and places it on her head. Grinning, Shannon tilts the brim down toward her nose. They hold hands.
"My mother was a nut," Robert says. "I don't mean she was in an institution or anything, she just wasn't conventional. She had such enthusiasm, an intensity that just took her out of this world sometimes. And when she was like that, she said she was air-dancing. And I'd ask her what the music was like for air-dancing—Smetana? Berlioz? Tchaikovsky? Those are all my favorites. She'd just smile and say she didn't know, she hadn't heard it yet, but some day she knew she would. Mother either jumped or fell out of the gondola of a hot-air balloon at forty thousand feet; she fell about eight miles. Happened over the Provencal Alps in Southern France. They never located her body."
"That's awful."
"Is it? Awful is dying in bed when you're old and nobody cares anything about you any more . And you've lived your life but you don't know what for. I figured this out once. A body in free-fall travels up to two hundred feet a second. Which means she was air-dancing for almost three and a half, maybe four minutes. I hope she heard it—the music. At least God must have kept her company on the way down, talked to my mother, told her some of the secrets of the universe the rest of us will never find out as long as we're on this earth. That's only fair, don't you think? I believe my mother knew something, instinctively: God doesn't trust us until we trust Him. And we're willing to prove that we trust Him by doing something extraordinary, impossible—impossible for most people, I mean."
"I guess I've never thought of God that
way."
"Well, probably I'm— unconventional, like my mother was. I just got to thinking about her again, as soon as I met you. Mother would have liked you. I was only twelve years old when she died. Do you know what I did, for the first time, the night I heard she was dead? I shouldn't tell you—you'll be disgusted with me."
"No, I won't. But I think I know."
"After I did it
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