Markett gasped, as her twenty-odd years of inculcated respect for property came down on her head like a ton of bricks. "You can't!" she cried. "It isn't yours—you said so." Her voice trailed off as she saw the baffled stare in his eyes.
"Come in," he offered, making room for her beside the pilot's seat. Limply she entered and closed the door. "Now," said Stevens, "what did you say?"
"The plane isn't yours, Clark!" Oddly, she flushed as she called him by his given name.
"Well," said Stevens, puzzlement written over his face, "it is now." He started the motor with one kick at the pedal and the plane snapped into the air, hovered for a moment, and shot diagonally up, through and above low-hanging cumulus clouds that glittered in the afternoon sun.
"Why did you come here?" asked Markett. Somehow she felt safe.
"More beautiful," said Stevens. "And I have plans."
"Plans?" asked the girl. "For yourself?"
"For the world," said Stevens. He nodded his head over the control board, and a shaft of light was caught in his hair; made it shine like little curly brass wires. "I must ask you questions," said the man. "I am different. Can you see it?"
"I can," said the girl. And at that moment she felt that it would be a better thing for man if she were to seize the controls, send their ship tearing down to smash into the ground.
Traffic control ship seven (for the district) swooped three times on the hovering plane. Pilot Petersen scratched his head. "What's he doing?" he asked Engineer Handel.