seats made more uncomfortable by the turbulence that buffeted the plane. A baby was screaming in its mother's arms; other children whimpered, swallowing cries of fear as parents smiled with tentative reassurances they did not feel. Most of the remaining passengers were silent, a few drinking their whiskey more rapidly than obviously was normal. Fewer still were forcing laughter from tight throats, false bravados that emphasized their insecurity rather than disguising it. A terrible flight was many things to many people, but none escape the essential thoughts of terror. When man encased himself in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground, he was vulnerable. With one elongated, screaming dive he could be plummeting downward into the earth. And there were fundamental questions that accompanied the essential terror. What thoughts would go through one's mind at such a time? How would one react?
The patient tried to find out; it was important to him. He sat next to the window, his eyes on the aircraft's wing, watching the broad expanse of metal bend and vibrate under the brutalizing impact of the winds. The currents were clashing against one another, pounding the manmade tube into a kind of submission, warning the microscopic pretenders that they were no match for the vast infirmities of nature. One ounce of pressure beyond the flex tolerance and the wing would crack, the lift-sustaining limb torn from its tubular body, shredded into the winds; one burst of rivets and there would be an explosion, the screaming plunge to follow.
What would he do? What would he think? Other than the uncontrollable fear of dying and oblivion, would there be anything else? That's what he had to concentrate on; that was the projection Washburn kept emphasizing in Port Noir. The doctor's words came back to him. Whenever you observe a stress situation--and you have the time--do your damndest to project yourself into it. Associate as freely as you can; let words and images fill your mind. In them you may find clues.
The patient continued to stare out the window, consciously trying to raise his unconscious, fixing his eyes on the natural violence beyond the glass, distilling the movement, silently doing his "damndest" to let his reactions give rise to words and images.
They came--slowly. There was the darkness again, and the sound of rushing wind, ear-shattering, continuous, growing in volume until he thought his head would burst. His head. ... The winds were lashing the left side of his head and face, burning his skin, forcing him to raise his left shoulder for protection. ... Left shoulder. Left arm . His arm was raised, the gloved fingers of his left hand gripping a straight edge of metal, his right holding a ... a strap; he was holding on to a strap, waiting for something. A signal ... a flashing light or a tap on the shoulder, or both. A signal. It came . He plunged. Into the darkness, into the void, his body tumbling, twisting, swept away into the night sky. He had ... parachuted!
"Etes-vous malade?"
His insane reverie was broken; the nervous passenger next to him had touched his left arm--which was raised, the fingers of his hand spread, as if resisting, rigid in their locked position. Across his chest his right forearm was pressed into the cloth of his jacket, his right hand gripping the lapel, bunching the fabric. And on his forehead were rivulets of sweat; it had happened. The something-else had come briefly--insanely--into focus.
" Pardon ," he said, lowering his arms. " Un mauvais reve ," he added meaninglessly. There was a break in the weather; the Caravelle stabilized. The smiles on the harried stewardesses'
faces became genuine again; full service was resumed as embarrassed passengers glanced at one Page 36
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
another.
The patient observed his surroundings but reached no conclusions. He was consumed by the images and the sounds that had been so
The patient tried to find out; it was important to him. He sat next to the window, his eyes on the aircraft's wing, watching the broad expanse of metal bend and vibrate under the brutalizing impact of the winds. The currents were clashing against one another, pounding the manmade tube into a kind of submission, warning the microscopic pretenders that they were no match for the vast infirmities of nature. One ounce of pressure beyond the flex tolerance and the wing would crack, the lift-sustaining limb torn from its tubular body, shredded into the winds; one burst of rivets and there would be an explosion, the screaming plunge to follow.
What would he do? What would he think? Other than the uncontrollable fear of dying and oblivion, would there be anything else? That's what he had to concentrate on; that was the projection Washburn kept emphasizing in Port Noir. The doctor's words came back to him. Whenever you observe a stress situation--and you have the time--do your damndest to project yourself into it. Associate as freely as you can; let words and images fill your mind. In them you may find clues.
The patient continued to stare out the window, consciously trying to raise his unconscious, fixing his eyes on the natural violence beyond the glass, distilling the movement, silently doing his "damndest" to let his reactions give rise to words and images.
They came--slowly. There was the darkness again, and the sound of rushing wind, ear-shattering, continuous, growing in volume until he thought his head would burst. His head. ... The winds were lashing the left side of his head and face, burning his skin, forcing him to raise his left shoulder for protection. ... Left shoulder. Left arm . His arm was raised, the gloved fingers of his left hand gripping a straight edge of metal, his right holding a ... a strap; he was holding on to a strap, waiting for something. A signal ... a flashing light or a tap on the shoulder, or both. A signal. It came . He plunged. Into the darkness, into the void, his body tumbling, twisting, swept away into the night sky. He had ... parachuted!
"Etes-vous malade?"
His insane reverie was broken; the nervous passenger next to him had touched his left arm--which was raised, the fingers of his hand spread, as if resisting, rigid in their locked position. Across his chest his right forearm was pressed into the cloth of his jacket, his right hand gripping the lapel, bunching the fabric. And on his forehead were rivulets of sweat; it had happened. The something-else had come briefly--insanely--into focus.
" Pardon ," he said, lowering his arms. " Un mauvais reve ," he added meaninglessly. There was a break in the weather; the Caravelle stabilized. The smiles on the harried stewardesses'
faces became genuine again; full service was resumed as embarrassed passengers glanced at one Page 36
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
another.
The patient observed his surroundings but reached no conclusions. He was consumed by the images and the sounds that had been so
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