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manager is invisible. Nobody knows who he is and where to find him.”
    The manager is President Nixon, who sounds most powerless of all. Over the summer he made a speech referring to the ornate federal buildings in Washington. He forecasted a gloomy future. “Sometimes when I see those columns I think of seeing Greece and Rome,” he said. “And I think of what happened to Greece and Rome, and you see only what is left of great civilizations of the past—as they have become wealthy, as they lost their will to live, to improve, they became subjectto the decadence that destroys the civilization. The United States is reaching that period.”

    The words. To her. Pay attention, Flo. Pay attention. The words glare at her as bright as lightbulbs.
    I have a bomb. Sit by me
.
    He’s kidding, right?
    “No, miss. This is for real.”
    She gets up and sits in 18D next to him. She drops the note. It flutters to the floor.
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “No, miss.”
    He reaches over to the window seat and puts his fingers on his attaché case. He opens the mouth. She peers inside.
    The sticks are red, about eight inches long. She sees a battery. It is bigger than a battery you might put in a flashlight.
    He’s teasing Flo now, holding in his fingers the naked copper tip of a wire in front of her. This
is
for real. She turns.
    There’s Tina.
    Tina can see Flo’s lips moving but the words are not coming out of her mouth. Flo gasps.
    “Tina.
Tina.
”
    Tina picks up the note near Flo’s feet. She reads it. It’s too late to turn back. The wheels are up. Flight 305 is already in the air.
    Tina reaches for the interphone hanging outside the lavatory. The interphone is her direct line to the cockpit. She speaks into the receiver.
    “We’re being hijacked,” she says. “He’s got a bomb and this is no joke.”

May 27, 1969
University Hospital, University of Washington, Seattle
    “Nothing I do is phony,” Bobby Dayton would say.
    It was true. When he wanted to go on a hike to clear his mind, he left with his dog, Irish, and came back three weeks later. He prospected for gold in the Yukon and nearly died from starvation. In the Merchant Marines, traveling the world in the hulls of the big ships, he went hunting in the Philippines and lived among the Māori warriors, who were famous for their guerrilla battle tactics. Back on the boat, he was nearly shot for being a deserter. Bobby spent plenty of time in the brig.
    He could be nasty, a savage. He’d punch you in the face if you looked at him wrong. He’d spit on your shoes to get a reaction, then slug you. Bobby talked about robbing banks because there was never any good work around, and he once rode with the Hells Angels as they terrorized the State of California. He never killed anybody, but he could have and almost did several times. Once in Mexico. Once in Seattle, where he lives. A taxicab driver cut him off. In the dispute, Bobby got out of his Dodge, removed a chain from the trunk, and beat the cabbie to within inches of his life.

    “Evidently, I’m a transsexual problem,” Bobby tells his doctor before the surgery. “My wife tells me I’m two people. She tells me when I’m Bob I seem bitter, but when I’m Barbara I’m a much nicer person.”
    He is in the hospital for a psychological evaluation, which is necessary before sex change operations. He is wearing a long-sleeved blouse (to cover his tattoos) and high heels. There is lipstick on his cigarette.
    The doctor studies his appearance and mannerisms. His teeth are in poor shape. His hands are rough. His speech is quiet and soft, and his gestures and hand movements are mildly effeminate.
    The doctor asks what Bobby does for a living.
    Until recently, Bobby was working on the Lockheed shipping yards, as an electrician. He was foreman to twenty men. It was uncomfortable for him to be in charge; men shouldn’t take orders from women, he thought, and so he quit.
    “I feel better away from people,” Bobby