“Your attention, please,” called a stewardess who had razor- cut golden hair and neat, hard features. “Flight Box 62 is scheduled to take off for St John’s in approximately twenty minutes. Due to the strength and direction of the breeze which has sprung up within the last few hours, we have been forced to anchor the aircraft further out than is usual and our motor launches are having to cope with extra work — but we can avoid delaying our departure if we fly out to the aircraft. Are there any passengers with boarding cards for Flight Bo162 who are unable to make a personal flight of half a kilometre?”

Hasson’s heart lurched sickeningly as he glanced around the group and saw that all of them were nodding in tentative agreement.

“Very well,” the stewardess said, nodding her head. “You will find standard CG harnesses on the rack beside the…”

“I’m sorry,” Hasson cut in, “I’m not allowed to use a harness.”

The girl’s eyes flickered briefly and there was a disappointed murmur from the other passengers. Several women glanced at Hasson, their eyes speculative and resentful. He turned away without speaking, feeling the chill air rush upwards past him at terminal velocity as he bombed down into Birmingham’s crowded commuter levels after a fall of three thousand metres, and the lights of the city expanded beneath him like a vast jewelled flower…

“In that case there’s no point in any of us flying.” The stewardess’s voice was neutral. “If you will all make yourselves comfortable I will call you as soon as a launch is available. We will do everything we can to keep delays to a minimum. Thank you.” She went to a communications set in the corner of the glass-walled lounge and began whispering into it.

Hasson set his cup down and, acutely conscious of being stared at, walked into the toilets.