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nger a working symptom of Nyodene contamination。 It had been preempted by a； convulsions； and miscarriage。 If Steffie had learned about déjà vu on the radio but then missed the subsequent upgrading to more deadly conditions； it could mean she was in a position to be tricked by her own apparatus of suggestibility。 She and Denise had been lagging all evening。 They were late with sweaty palms； late with nausea； late again with déjà vu。 What did it all mean？ Did Steffie truly imagine she'd seen the wreck before or did she only imagine she'd imagined it？ Is it possible to have a false perception of an illusion？ Is there a true déjà vu and a false déjà vu？ I wondered whether her palms had been truly sweaty or whether she'd simply imagined a sense of wetness。 And was she so open to suggestion that she would develop every symptom as it was announced？
I feel sad for people and the queer part we play in our own disasters。
But what if she hadn't heard the radio； didn't know what déjà vu was？ What if she was developing real symptoms by natural means？ Maybe the scientists were right in the first place； with their original announcements； before they revised upward。 Which was worse； the real condition or the self…created one； and did it matter？ I wondered about these and allied questions。 As I drove I found myself giving and taking an oral examination based on the kind of quibbling fine…points that had entertained several centuries' worth of medieval idlers。 Could a nine…year…old girl suffer a miscarriage due to the power of suggestion？ Would she have to be pregnant first？ Could the power of suggestion be strong enough to work backward in this manner； from miscarriage to pregnancy to menstruation to ovulation？ Which es first； menstruation or ovulation？ Are we talking about mere symptoms or deeply entrenched conditions？ Is a symptom a sign or a thing？ What is a thing and how do we know it's not another thing？
I turned off the radio； not to help me think but to keep me from thinking。 Vehicles lurched and skidded。 Someone threw a gum wrapper out a side window and Babette made an indignant speech about inconsiderate people littering the highways and countryside。
〃I'll tell you something else that's happened before；〃 Heinrich said。 〃We're running out of gas。〃
The dial quivered on E。
〃There's always extra；〃 Babette said。
〃How can there be always extra？〃
〃That's the way the tank is constructed。 So you don't run out。〃
〃There can't be always extra。 If you keep going； you run out。〃
〃You don't keep going forever。〃
〃How do you know when to stop？〃 he said。
〃When you pass a gas station；〃 I told him； and there it was； a deserted and rain…swept plaza with proud pumps standing beneath an array of multicolored banners。 I drove in； jumped out of the car； ran around to the pumps with my head tucked under the raised collar of my coat。 They were not locked； which meant the attendants had fled suddenly； leaving things intriguingly as they were； like the tools and pottery of some pueblo civilization； bread in the oven； table set for three； a mystery to haunt the generations。 I seized the hose on the unleaded pump。 The banners smacked in the wind。
A few minutes later； back on the road； we saw a remarkable and startling sight。 It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left； prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats； bend our heads for a clearer view； exclaim to each other in half finished phrases。 It was the black billowing cloud； the airborne toxic event； lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters。 They were tracking its wíndborne movement； keeping it in view。 In every car； heads shifted； drivers blew their horns to alert others； faces appeared in side windows； expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment。
The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend； escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings。 We weren't sure how to react。 It was a terrible thing to see； so close； so low； packed with chlorides； benzines； phenols； hydrocarbons； or whatever the precise toxic content。 But it was also spectacular； part of the grandness of a sweeping event； like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children； food； belongings； a tragic army of the dispossessed。 Our fear was acpanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious。 It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life； to see it as a cosmic force； so much larger than yourself； more powerful； created by elemental and willful rhythms。 This was a death made in the laboratory； defined and measurable； but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way； as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado； something not subject to control。 Our helplessness did not seem patible with the idea of a man…made event。
In the back seat the kids fought for possession of the binoculars。
The whole thing was amazing。 They seemed to be spotlighting the cloud for us as if it were part of a sound…and…light show； a bit of mood…setting mist drifting across a high battlement where a king had been slain。 But this was not history we were witnessing。 It was some secret festering thing； some dreamed emotion that acpanies the dreamer out of sleep。 Flares came swooning from the helicopters； creamy bursts of red and white light。 Drivers sounded their horns and children crowded all the windows； faces tilted； pink hands pressed against the glass。
The road curved away from the toxic cloud and traffic moved more freely for a while。 At an intersection near the Boy Scout camp； two schoolbuses entered the mainstream traffic； both carrying the insane of Blacksmith。 We recognized the drivers； spotted familiar faces in the windows； people we customarily saw sitting on lawn chairs behind the asylum's sparse hedges or walking in ever narrowing circles； with ever increasing speed； like spinning masses in a gyration device。 We felt an odd affection for them and a sense of relief that they were being looked after in a diligent and professional manner。 It seemed to mean the structure was intact。
We passed a