* * * * *
The bomb was in a small bag--a woman's bag judging by the soft,
flimsy things you'd never find in a man's--and I didn't know it was a
bomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,
quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held me
was that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must be
electrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock more
closely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hard
round cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of my
neck when I suddenly realized what it was.
The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up past
the train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my own
alarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.
It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.
My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look around
at the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. I
thought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it was
there. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.
We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angeles
soon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.
But of course that had been the plan!
My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mind
was numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'd
think I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would be
panic and they'd never get the plane down in time--if they believed me.
"Sir." My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,
smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a small
paper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrapped
doughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and a
napkin.
I goggled at her, managed to croak, "No, thanks." She gave me an odd
look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at
the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.
I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent
a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that
balance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I tried
to close everything off--the throb of engines, the rush of air, the
woman sipping coffee noisily beside me--and I went into the clock and
surrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;
when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it was
like trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't going
to be able to stop it.
Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could not
afford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my hold
until it came to a dead stop.
"Anything the matter?"
My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next to
me. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she was
still chewing.
"No," I said, letting out my breath. "I'm all right."
"You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head back
and forth."
"Must have been dreaming," I said as I rang for the stewardess. When
she came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,
just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammy
with sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.
* * * * *
All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead to
the landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel would
start again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.
I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe
calling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.
Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock--but not before the
bomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life would
be changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a man
literally with gimlet eyes.
Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north of
the city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,
but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but it
was also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.
To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closing
my eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tugging
and pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.
A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.
"Your cup," my seat partner said, pointing.
I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then I
looked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She took
it without a word and went away.
"Were you really asleep that time?"
"Not really," I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject to
fits, but I didn't.
It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longest
minutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel when
the plane dipped and bumped to a landing.
Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk as
unconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walking
through the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. I
had my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.
So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane and
watch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfield
carts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.
It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag contained
the bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. The
assortment of bags--a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors--was
packed in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate where
I was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining the
balance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down a
ramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloaded
and placed in a long rack. I went with it.
There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,
and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to
determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was
the attendant and I had two bags--my own battered veteran of years, and
a fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.
I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and--a
clock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.
I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched toward
and grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. I
entered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it to
immobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.
* * * * *
The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment I
stared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presented
it to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and I
was ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags with
his eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed it
toward me.
"Thanks," I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the
remaining bag. "One left over, eh?"
"Yeah." He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But
he was eying me with a "well-why-don't-you-get-along?" look.