He was cold now. Not cold turkey, just cold. He didn’t need the voice in his head to make him cold. Cold—sometimes that was okay. You just had to be careful you didn’t get so cold you froze.
Eddie moved forward, reached the point where a left turn would take him into the jetway—and then suddenly put his hand to his mouth.
“I don’t feel well,” he murmured. “Excuse me.” He moved the door to the cockpit, which slightly blocked the door to the first class head, and opened the bathroom door on the right.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to exit the plane,” the pilot said sharply as Eddie opened the bathroom door. “It’s—”
“I believe I’m going to vomit, and I don’t want to do it on your shoes,” Eddie said, “or mine, either.”
A second later he was in with the door locked. The Captain was saying something. Eddie couldn’t make it out, didn’t want to make it out. The important thing was that it was just talk, not yelling, he had been right, no one was going to start yelling with maybe two hundred and fifty passengers still waiting to deplane from the single forward door. He was in, he was temporarily safe . . . but what good was it going to do him?
If you’re there, he thought, you better do something very quick, whoever you are.
For a terrible moment there was nothing at all. That was a short moment, but in Eddie Dean’s head it seemed to stretch out almost forever, like the Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy Henry had sometimes bought him in the summer when they were kids; if he were bad, Henry beat the shit out of him, if he were good, Henry bought him Turkish Taffy. That was the way Henry handled his heightened responsibilities during summer vacation.
God, oh Christ, I imagined it all, oh Jesus, how crazy could I have b—
Get ready, a grim voice said. I can’t do it alone. I can COME FORWARD but I can’t make you COME THROUGH. You have to do it with me. Turn around.
Eddie was suddenly seeing through two pairs of eyes, feeling with two sets of nerves （but not all the nerves of this other person were here; parts of the other were gone, freshly gone, screaming with pain）， sensing with ten senses, thinking with two brains, his blood beating with two hearts.
He turned around. There was a hole in the side of the bathroom, a hole that looked like a doorway. Through it he could see a gray, grainy beach and waves the color of old athletic socks breaking upon it.
He could hear the waves.
He could smell salt, a smell as bitter as tears in his nose.
Go through.
Someone was thumping on the door to the bathroom, telling him to come out, that he must deplane at once.
Go through, damn you!
Eddie, moaning, stepped toward the doorway . . . stumbled . . . and fell into another world.
13
He got slowly to his feet, aware that he had cut his right palm on an edge of shell. He looked stupidly at the blood welling across his lifeline, then saw another man rising slowly to his feet on his right.
Eddie recoiled, his feelings of disorientation and dreamy dislocation suddenly supplanted by sharp terror; this man was dead and didn’t know it. His face was gaunt, the skin stretched over the bones of his face like strips of cloth wound around slim angles of metal almost to the point where the cloth must tear itself open. The man’s skin was livid save for hectic spots of red high on each cheekbone, on the neck below the angle of jaw on either side, and a single circular mark between the eyes like a child’s effort to replicate a Hindu caste symbol.
Yet his eyes—blue, steady, sane—were alive and full of terrible and tenacious vitality. He wore dark clothes of some homespun material; the shirt, its sleeves rolled up, was a black faded almost to gray, the pants something that looked like bluejeans. Gunbelts crisscrossed his hips, but the loops were almost all empty. The holsters held guns that looked like .45s—but .45s of an incredibly antique vintage. The smooth wood of their handgrips seemed to glow with their own inner light.