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from one end of the world to the other. So he was wheeled aboard, two of the best doctors accompanying him, and for the next 24 hours he found himself staring out of the battered window of the jet, intravenous tubes jammed in his arm, medics registering blood pressure and temperature every few minutes, his veins shot to bursting with fresh injections. Outside the clouds billowed and died and were reborn, and the sun's glow declined to deep orange but never to the bruised tint of twilight, and a sense of calm ruled over him as the rash fell away from his body. Upon landing he was wheeled gingerly into the terminal while the plane was refueled, and even though the sun was inching ever closer to the vanishing point, he felt neither dread nor impatience - only happiness at the sight of the tarmac, still drenched from an afternoon tropical shower, and the whisper of a breeze that promised a restful night. This happy interlude lasted 
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only a moment, and then the plane was ready and he was back on board, held fast to the seat as the jet climbed high, determined to escape night forever. *** His youth was limited to a simple, regimented routine out of necessity: the same cargo jet route, over and over, the same vistas of lava-like clouds and unceasing light. For a time doctors traveled with him, circling around him like connoisseurs at an exhibit, chattering in all manner of dialects. Seats at the back of the jet were removed to fashion a living room of sorts - here he could stretch out on the itchy carpet, and gaze up at the corrugated ceiling, the rumble of the engines singing in his ears. At times all the shades were pulled down inside the plane as an experiment, and his condition never changed. Artificial attempts to recreate sunlight culminated in failure, despite  |
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