No Highway by Nevil Shute Page A

pad.
    In the saloon Dobson showed Honey to his seat with studied courtesy; then he went on down the cabin to the galley at the rear end. The tall dark stewardess was there, the one who was looking after Mr. Honey.
    He greeted her with a grin. “Fun and games,” he said. “The boffin’s going mad.”
    Miss Corder stared at him. “What
do
you mean?”
    “He’s absolutely crackers. Says the tail’s going to fall off.” She asked quietly, “Is it?”
    “No, of course it’s not. It’s the altitude or something, even pressurised down like this. The captain wants him specially looked after—he’s a bit excited. Got any bromide with your medicines?”
    She turned to the medicine chest and pulled out a drawer, and examined two or three little flasks of tablets. “I’ve got these.”
    He took the flask from her and read the label. “That looks all right,” he said. “Give him two or three of these if he gets restless. But he’s quiet enough now; I don’t think he’ll make any trouble. Give us a ring through if he does, and one or other of us’ll come down.”
    She nodded. “What does he think is going to happen?”
    He shrugged his shoulders. “Says the tail’s due to fall off after this number of hours. Says we ought to turn back and land in Ireland. It’s all sheer nonsense—something he’s made up. It really is a most fantastic place, that Farnborough. There’s not a whisper of truth in it.”
    “How do you know that?” she asked.
    He laughed. “Do you think the Inspection would have let this aircraft fly if there was any danger of that sort of thing? Be your age.”
    She nodded slowly. “That’s right, of course. I suppose he’s been overworking or something.”
    “Overdrinking. Someone’s given him an egg-cup full of ginger cordial.”
    She said, “He’s a nice little man.” Above her head the telephone buzzer from the flight deck rang, she lifted the hand microphone. “Yes,” she said, “he’s here. I’ll ask him to come up at once.”
    She turned to Dobson. “Captain wants you on the flight deck.”
    “Okay. I like your idea of a nice little man. Ruddy little squirt, I call him, coming up with a tale like this and frightening us all into a fit.” He turned away, and moved forward up the aisle in the soft, dimmed lights of the quiet cabin, past the sleeping passengers stretched in their reclining seats. She watched him till he passed through the door at the forward end; then she moved up the aisle herself and stopped by Mr. Honey. He was sitting upright in his seat, his hands playing nervously with the fringe of his overcoat upon his lap.
    She said, “Can I get you a hot drink, sir? We’ve got plenty of milk; would you like a cup of Ovaltine and a few biscuits?”
    He said nervously, “Oh no, thank you. I don’t want anything.”
    She said gently, “Would you rather have some soup or a whisky and soda? It’s better to have something when you can’t sleep.”
    He turned to her, roused from his obsession. Airline stewardesses are not chosen for their repellent qualities, and Miss Corder was a very charming girl. “It’s awfully kind of you,” he said. “I’ll be all right. It’s—it’s just a bit worrying, that’s all.”
    “Let me make you a hot milk drink,” she said. “It’s very good when you’ve got something on your mind. We’ve got Horlicks if you’d rather have that than Ovaltine.”
    It was years since any woman had spoken in that way to Mr. Honey; he was irresistibly reminded of his dead wife, and the tears welled up behind his eyes. It might have been Mary speaking to him. “All right,” he said thickly. “I’d like Ovaltine.”
    She went away to get it, and a minute or two later the door at the forward end opened, and Captain Samuelson came into the cabin. He moved down the aisle, nodding and smiling at Mr. Honey as he passed. He went on past the galley, past the toilets, and opened a door in the rear wall and went through the aft luggage bay to