The Nightmare, a 20,000 feet

by Richard Matheson.

Seatbelt please, said the steward as cheerfully as she passed him.

Almost as she spoke, the sign above the archway which led to the forward compartment lit up,

fastened seatbelt, with below its attendant caution, no smoking. Drawing in a deep lungful,

Wilson excelled it in bursts, then pressed the cigarette into the armrest tray

with irritable stabbing motions. Outside, one of the engines coughed monstrously, spewing out a cloud

of fume which fragmented into the night air. The fuselage began to shudder, and Wilson, glancing through the window,

saw the exhaust of flame jetting whitely from the engine's nacelle. The second engine coughed,

then roared, its propeller instantly a blare of revolution. With a tense submissiveness,

Wilson fastened the belt across his lap. Now all the engines were running, and Wilson's head

throbbed, in unison, with the fuselage. He sat rigidly,

staring at the seat ahead as the D-7 taxied across the apron,

heating the night with the thundering blast of its exhaust.

At the edge of the runway, it halted.

Wilson looked out through the window at the leviathan glitter of the terminal.

By late morning, he thought, showered and cleanly dressed, he would be sitting in the office

of one more contact, discussing one more specious deal, the net result of which would not

add one jot of meaning to the history of mankind.

It was all so damned. Wilson gasped as the engines began their warm-up race, preparatory to take off.

The sound, already loud, became deafening waves of sound that crashed against Wilson's ears like

club blows. He opened his mouth as if to let it drain. His eyes took on the glaze of a

...