It was an old Russian plane, a discard from Aeroflot, that was filled to capacity. They separated to avoid having someone who recognized the famous physicist report that he was traveling with an American. Perikov was in the second row during the choppy flight, while Michael was in the rear of the plane, sandwiched in a narrow seat between a wizened old Russian man with garlicky breath who kept taking slugs from a bottle of vodka, and a woman with two small, red-faced, runny-nosed children. They cried the whole way, while she alternated between slapping them and feeding them bread smeared with a greasy coating that looked to Michael as if it were a combination of butter and lard. Midway through the flight the plane, buffeted by strong winds, lurched and dropped without any warning through several thousand feet before the pilot regained control. Everyone in the plane was terrified. Some gasped. Others cried out in panic. Was this it? The end? The pilot managed to get the tired old plane under control.
