The Running Man

MINUS 025 AND COUNTING

The two troopers on roadblock duty at the eastern entrance of the jetport watched the huge liner fling itself down the runway, gaining speed. Its lights blinked orange and green in the growing dark, and the howl of its engines buffeted their ears.

“He’s going. Christ, he’s going.”

“Where?” said the other.

They watched the dark shape as it separated from the ground. Its engines took on a curiously flat sound, like artillery practice on a cold morning. It rose at a steep angle, as real and as tangible and as prosaic as a cube of butter on a plate, yet improbable with flight.

“You think he’s got it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

The roar of the jet was now coming to them in falling cycles.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though.” The first turned from the diminishing lights and turned up his collar. “I’m glad he’s got that bastard with him. That McCone.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“As long as I don’t have to answer it.”

“Would you like to see him pull it off?”

The trooper said nothing for a long time. The sound of the jet faded, faded, faded, until it disappeared into the underground hum of nerves at work.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will?”

A crescent smile in the darkness. “My friend, I think there’s gonna be a big boom.”