Nightmare At 20,000 Feet by Richard Matheson

of wood and metal for furnishings. Nothing but inanimate dead matter.
    No matter what John Morton said.
    Him with his gold leaves parting and his test tubes and his God of the microscope. For all his erudite talk and his papers of slideruled figures; despite all that-it was simple witchcraft he professed. It was idiocy. The idiocy that prompted that ass Charles Fort to burden the world with his nebulous fancies. The idiocy that made that fool of a millionaire endow this place and from the arid soil erect these huge stone structures and house within a zoo of wild-eyed scientists always searching for some fashion of elixir while the rest of the clowns blew the world out from under them.
    No, there is nothing right with the world, he thought as he plodded under the arch and onto the wide, green campus.
    He looked across at the huge Physical Sciences Centre, its granite face beaming in the late morning sun.
    Now she is calling the cab. He consulted his watch. No. She is in the cab already. Riding through the silent streets. Past the houses and down into the shopping district. Past the red brick buildings spewing out yokels and students. Through the town that was a potpourri of the sophisticated and the rustic.
    Now the cab was turning left on Tenth Street. Now it was pulling up the hill, topping it. Gliding down toward the railroad station. Now…
    "Chris!"
    His head snapped around and his body twitched in surprise. He looked toward the wide-doored entrance to the Mental Sciences Building. Dr. Morton was coming out.
    We attended school together eighteen years ago, he thought. But I took only a small interest in science. I preferred wasting my time on the culture of the centuries. That's why I'm an associate and he's a doctor and the head of his department.
    All this fled like racing winds through his mind as Dr. Morton approached, smiling. He clapped Chris on the shoulder.
    "Hello there," he said. "How are things?"
    "How are they ever?"

    Dr. Morton's smile faded.
    "What is it, Chris?" he asked.
    I won't tell you about Sally, Chris thought. Not if I die first. You'll never know it from me.
    "The usual," he said.
    "Still on the outs with Ramsay?"
    Chris shrugged. Morton looked over at the large clock on the face of the Mental Sciences Building.
    "Say, look," he said. "Why are we standing here? Your class isn't for a half hour yet, is it?"
    Chris didn't answer. He's going to invite me for coffee, he thought. He's going to regale me with more of his inane theories. He's going to use me as whipping boy for his mental merry-go-round.
    "Let's get some coffee," Morton said, taking Chris's arm. They walked along in silence for a few steps.
    "How's Sally?" Morton asked then.
    "She's fine," he answered in an even voice.
    "Good. Oh, incidentally. I'll probably drop by tomorrow or the next day for that book I left there last Thursday night."
    "All right."
    "What were you saying about Ramsay now?"
    "I wasn't."
    Morton skipped that. "Been thinking anymore about what I told you?" he asked.
    "If you're referring to your fairy tale about my house-no. I haven't been giving it any more thought than it deserves- which is none."
    They turned the corner of the building and walked toward Ninth Street.
    "Chris, that's an indefensible attitude," Morton said. "You have no right to doubt when you don't know."

    Chris felt like pulling his arm away, turning and leaving Morton standing there. He was sick of words and words and words. He wanted to be alone. He almost felt as if he could put a pistol to his head now, get it over with. Yes, I could-he thought. If someone handed it to me now it would be done in a moment.
    They went up the stone steps to the sidewalk and crossed over to the Campus Cafe. Morton opened the door and ushered Chris in. Chris went in back and slid into a wooden booth.
    Morton brought two coffees and sat across from him.
    "Now listen," he said, stirring in sugar, "I'm your best friend. At least I regard myself as such. And I'm damned if