Four Past Midnight by Stephen King

Larry Niven or John Varley isn’t on board.”
    â€œWho are those guys?”
    â€œScience-fiction writers,” Jenkins said.

3
    â€œI don’t suppose you read science fiction, do you?” Nick Hopewell asked suddenly. Brian turned around to look at him. Nick had been sitting quietly in the navigator’s seat since Brian had taken control of Flight 29, almost two hours ago now. He had listened wordlessly as Brian continued trying to reach someone— anyone —on the ground or in the air.
    â€œI was crazy about it as a kid,” Brian said. “You?”
    Nick smiled. “Until I was eighteen or so, I firmly believed that the Holy Trinity consisted of Robert Heinlein, John Christopher, and John Wyndham. I’ve been sitting here and running all those old stories through my head, matey. And thinking about such exotic things as time-warps and space-warps and alien raiding parties.”
    Brian nodded. He felt relieved; it was good to know he wasn’t the only one who was thinking crazy thoughts.
    â€œI mean, we don’t really have any way of knowing if anything is left down there, do we?”
    â€œNo,” Brian said. “We don’t.”
    Over Illinois, low-lying clouds had blotted out the dark bulk of the earth far below the plane. He was sure it still was the earth—the Rockies had looked reassuringly familiar, even from 36,000 feet—but beyond that he was sure of nothing. And the cloud cover might hold all the way to Bangor. With Air Traffic Control out of commission, he had no real way of knowing. Brian had been playing with a number of scenarios, and the most unpleasant of the lot was this: that they would come out of the clouds and discover that every sign of human life—including the airport where he hoped to land—was gone. Where would he put this bird down then?
    â€œI’ve always found waiting the hardest part,” Nick said.
    The hardest part of what? Brian wondered, but he did not ask.
    â€œSuppose you took us down to 5,000 feet or so?” Nick proposed suddenly. “Just for a quick look-see. Perhaps the sight of a few small towns and interstate highways will set our minds at rest.”
    Brian had already considered this idea. Had considered it with great longing. “It’s tempting,” he said, “but I can’t do it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThe passengers are still my first responsibility, Nick. They’d probably panic, even if I explained what I was going to do in advance. I’m thinking of our loudmouth friend with the pressing appointment at the Pru in particular. The one whose nose you twisted.”
    â€œI can handle him,” Nick replied. “Any others who cut up rough, as well.”
    â€œI’m sure you can,” Brian said, “but I still see no need of scaring them unnecessarily. And we will find out, eventually. We can’t stay up here forever, you know.”
    â€œToo true, matey,” Nick said dryly.
    â€œI might do it anyway, if I could be sure I could get under the cloud cover at 4,000 or 5,000 feet, but with no ATC and no other planes to talk to, I can’t be sure. I don’t even know for sure what the weather’s like down there, and I’m not talking about normal stuff, either. You can laugh at me if you want to—”
    â€œI’m not laughing, matey. I’m not even close to laughing. Believe me.”
    â€œWell, suppose we have gone through a time-warp, like in a science-fiction story? What if I took us down through the clouds and we got one quick look at a bunch of brontosauruses grazing in some Farmer John’s field before we were torn apart by a cyclone or fried in an electrical storm?”
    â€œDo you really think that’s possible?” Nick asked. Brian looked at him closely to see if the question was sarcastic. It didn’t appear to be, but it was hard to tell. The British were famous for their dry sense of