Mostly we took turns going to sleep, though I think there were times when all three of us were snoozing. About the fifth time I woke up, after some tighter shut-eye, the orange soup was back again outside and Alice was snoring gently in the next seat and Pop was up and had one of his knives out. He was looking at his reflection in the viewport. His face gleamed. He was rubbing butter into it. "Another day, another pack of troubles," he said cheerfully. The tone of his remark jangled my nerves, as that tone generally does early in the morning. I squeezed my eyes. "Where are we?" I asked. He poked his elbow toward the North America screen. The two green dots were almost one. "My God, we're practically there," Alice said for me. She'd waked fast, Deathlands style. "I know," Pop said, concentrating on what he was doing, "but I aim to be shaved before they commence landing maneuvers." "You think automatic will land us?" Alice asked. "What if we just start circling around?" "We can figure out what to do when it happens," Pop said, whittling away at his chin. "Until then, I'm not interested. There's still a couple of bottles of coffee in the sack. I've had mine." I didn't join in this chit-chat because the green dots and Alice's first remark had reminded me of a lot deeper reason for my jangled nerves than Pop's cheerfulness. Night was gone, with its shielding cloak and its feeling of being able to talk forever, and the naked day was here, with its demands for action. It is not so difficult to change your whole view of life when you are flying, or even bumping along above the ground with friends who understand, but soon, I knew, I'd be down in the dust with something I never wanted to see again. "Coffee, Ray?" "Yeah, I guess so." I took the bottle from Alice and wondered whether my face looked as glum as hers. "They shouldn't salt butter," Pop asserted. "It makes it lousy for shaving." "It was the _best_ butter," Alice said. "Yeah," I said. "The Dormouse, when they buttered the watch." It may be true that feeble humor is better than none. I don't know. "What are you two yakking about?" Pop demanded. "A book we both read," I told him. "Either of you writers?" Pop asked with sudden interest. "Some of the boys think we should have a book about us. I say it's too soon, but they say we might all die off or something. Whoa, Jenny! Easy does it. Gently, please!" That last remark was by way of recognizing that the plane had started an authoritative turn to the left. I got a sick and cold feeling. This was it. Pop sheathed his knife and gave his face a final rub. Alice belted on her satchel. I reached for my knapsack, but I was staring through the viewport, dead ahead. The haze lightened faintly, three times. I remembered the St. Elmo's fire that had flamed from the cracking plant.