The pilot looked at him dizzily, beseechingly. Merrol decided he must be pouring it on, though he felt no different. "Remember, I can get up here in an awful hurry," said Merrol, "so no tricks." The pilot nodded and clung helplessly to the controls. He wouldn't cause any trouble. Merrol raised his arm in a gesture. "Come on, fellows."
As an afterthought, he locked the stewardess in the private compartment and, as he did so, he could feel the plane swing in a wide arc that would take them to the station they had started from. The apathetic dozing passengers didn't even notice.
And then all six of him walked back to his seat and Merrol sat down.
VI
He slid out of the plane while it was still rolling. He didn't want to argue with the passengers, when they found they were on the wrong coast and he was to blame. Nor did he particularly want to explain to the authorities. Later he would have to, but by then he would have powerful interests behind him to smooth over the incident.
It was late and there were no cabs in sight, in air or on surface. He crossed the landing strip into the station and out of it and swept along the dark streets with a loose-jointed stride that made the distance seem less than it was. Presently, he broke into a trot and his speed was encouraging.
A hoppicopter—one of the little surface cars that could rise and fly for a short time to avoid traffic jams—bounced down and rolled alongside. A window slid open and a head popped out. "In a hurry, mister?"
He bobbed his head. "Hospital."
"Jump in and we'll take you. We're not doing anything special—just riding around." The hoppicopter stopped. This was luck—he'd get there faster.