Solstice

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British Pacific Flight 172 had left Tokyo for London Heathrow right on schedule, every one of its 332 seats occupied, every ounce of weight, every moment of balance accurately calculated. The route was standard these days: no more long, circuitous detours to avoid the Soviet Union, no more boring stopovers in Anchorage. Just a sharp hook to the west after takeoff, on to Vladivostok, and then a dead straight line along the great circle, coming down over Finland into Britain over the North Sea.

This was a two-man operation: one captain, one first officer, both watching the LCD screens of the new all-digital flight panel and relying, for the most part, on the autopilot to guide the plane's movements.

Ian Seabright didn't like to admit it to anyone, particularly the company's inquisitive human resources staff, but these days flying just plain bored him. It had been different when he first got into the game, straight from the RAF, in the seventies. Then you used your brain, sometimes your muscle, too. Today you just minded the computer, watching the dials flash and alter on some screen, making sure the silicon pilot didn't do anything wrong.

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