”“Mizz Cindy,” my former copilot said, “If you hadn’t been there we’d be dead right now.”“I understand,” I said. “But it’s a good outcome. We’re okay.”Another one of the bunch said, “Darlin’, I need your contact info.”“Just a sec,” I said. I turned and went back in the plane, got my backpack, retrieved business cards. Passed ‘em out.Reporterette, as Dan calls ‘em. Kind of harried looking. Eight at night is outside her ‘looking good’ hours, I guess. Cameraman close behind.“You’re the pilot?” she asked.“Damned straight she’s the pilot,” one of the lawyers said.I handed her a card. “This is me.”Then it’s question time. Interview. I’m letting my mind go into ‘presentation mode’, just like for my dissertation defense or one of my papers at Los Alamos. Ain’t no ways skeered, to lapse into the vernacular.You can tell by the questions that the sum total of this lady’s knowledge of aviation comes from looking out the window of an airline terminal, but I’m NICE. And it’s hard being nice because. The room was painfully quiet. Every movement he made seemed to cause no sound. This was very unusual. He tried to retrace his steps to figure out how he got here. He remembered the breakfast "milk". That couldn't have been tainted. He remembered the drive to the hotel, the pool deck, the elevator. Nothing out of the ordinary. No peculiar smells or odors. The walk out on the deck, TV, the drink. Oh, the drink. That had to be it. Who ever had done this, must have coated his glass with some kind of sedative. And it had worked. Then it hit him. Music came blaring through his ears. The jolt from the silence was abrupt. Whatever was on his head, must have had speakers built in. Some sort of loud rock tune was deafening him. He almost had drifted off to sleep several times, but the music always woke him back up. If this was kept up all night, there would be no way for him to get any sleep. The music was playing for almost 45 minutes before anything new had happened. Just as he thought that.
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