Flight of the Tiger

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Ben Morrow knew that when his thirty-day leave was up, he was not going to report to his new station. In a kind of daydream he had tried unsuccessfully to visualize himself reporting, checking in with the adjutant, getting a BOQ assignment, walking out on the line and looking at the shining and deadly plane they would want him to fly. He couldn’t imagine any of that, but neither could he visualize not reporting. He tried to think of how it would be to run, to keep on running forever, and always hiding.

Then he thought of a story he had read in one of MacLane’s tattered science-fiction magazines. In it everyone had known that on such and such a day the sun was going to blow up and destroy the world. Everyone had known, but nobody could quite believe it; because they couldn’t visualize nothingness.

Morrow had twenty-eight days left. Now it was eight thirty on a Friday night and he sat with a drink in the club car of the Commodore Vanderbilt. The train was ten minutes east of Toledo, rushing toward New York. He had come a long way, all the way across the Pacific; as a courier officer, he had started his leave in San Francisco.

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