Her disablement came without warning; there was no intervening period of distress or giddiness or quietude. One moment she’d been sitting there, chattering as before, pausing only to poke food into her mouth or taste the gin, and the next she had simply ceased to function. She still sat there nearly upright, plump hands resting on the edge of the dinner tray, green-painted eyelids in a three-quarters droop, her mouth slightly parted. It was as if a beautifully turned out machine had developed a sudden, chronic imperfection. Like the pressurizing system on the attack bomber, Stanley thought. He moved his hand in front of the girl’s face; he touched her cool forehead; he leaned close and spoke into her ear — “Hey, honey, how’s it feel?” — but there was no response. He sat back for a moment and cleaned his plate of food. He leaned forward again and speared the remaining bits of roast beef and potato from the girl’s plate. He smoked a cigarette. Then he signaled to the steward to retrieve the trays and he began the laborious business of lifting and pulling on the girl until she was stretched out the length of the reclining chair.
