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gentle amber light flickered in the velvet darkness of the forest. The clearing below suddenly exploded in a searing red light, and from above the trees Drummond could see naked men slowly marching toward another figure he knew but couldn't recognize.
    The men were well muscled and carried something before them, something almost recognized by Drummond. They stopped in front of the figure the unseen Drummond knew, and one by one they received something from the figure: almost but not quite a cup. Slowly they lifted the vessel to their lips. Blood ran down their chins, and in the distance, mournful horns sounded deep within the forest.
    Drummond found himself in line with the men, reaching forward to receive the strange silver cup, bringing it to his lips, the horns growing louder… and louder… and louder.
    He awoke with a start, Mozart's horn concerto filling his head with its glorious baroque sound. He tried desperately to recall the face he had seen in his dream. The man who offered him the cup—he knew him, he had seen him. He was real—not some shadow from his dream.
    "Are you all right?" Mrs. Mac Dowell sounded concerned.
    "Oh, I'm fine. Thanks." Drummond felt anything but fine.
    "You're sure? I mean, you're not going to be sick or anything, are you? I mean, well, you're very pale."
    "No, I'll be all right. Really." Drummond got up and walked back to the toilets in the center of the plane. There was no line of anxious passengers, and he went into the nearest cubical and pulled the folding door shut.
    Drummond stared at himself in the mirror, hoping it was the small overhead light that made him look so washed out and pale. Turning on the tap, he filled the stainless steel basin with hot water and splashed it on his face, trying to wash away the memory of the dream and the fear that he was changing. Looking back in the mirror at his pallid reflection, he remembered the pale, almost luminescent complexion of the knights. Perhaps he was becoming one of them, after all. Pulling a paper towel from the dispenser, Drummond dried his face and stepped out of the cubical.
    The swarthy man in the ill-fitting suit was blocking the aisle, and Drummond was just about to ask him to step aside when he saw the hand grenade in the man's left hand.
    Time was nearly suspended. In extreme slow motion, Drummond saw the terrorist's right hand reach up and pull the pin from the grenade. Launching himself forward, Drummond grabbed the man's left hand in both of his, at the same time driving his knee into the man's kidneys.
    The man's legs buckled, and under Drummond's weight they both crashed to the floor of the aircraft. Suddenly time started racing again. People were starting to scream. The swarthy little man struggled fiercely to get out of Drummond's viselike grip, thrashing around in the aisle, trying to open his hand enough to release the grenade's arming spoon.
    Drummond held onto the man's hand and tried to knee him in the groin. Finally, getting somewhat on top of the man, he bounced up and down on his back, trying to snap his spine.
    In the cabin all around him, panic was increasing as more and more passengers realized that at any moment the grenade could go off, blowing a refrigerator-sized hole in the aircraft. Women screamed and men shouted in panic as people tried to rush away from the menacing struggle on the floor of the plane.
    Drummond kept bouncing on the little man, at the same time trying to twist his arm out of its socket. He felt his knees contact the man's head. Jumping up and down even harder, he managed to smash the man's face into the floor, stunning him momentarily. He tried with all his strength to pull the grenade from the man's hand, but with no success.
    It seemed as if he had been holding onto the man for hours, when three men pushed their way through the crowd and made their way to Drummond from the first-class cabin of the jumbo jet. The first two men were in airline uniforms, and the larger of the two hauled