Free They Came to Baghdad by Agatha Christie

passed out through the door leading to the aerodrome. The door swung to behind him with vehemence.
    â€œSir Rupert,” murmured Mrs. Clipp. “Now who would he be, I wonder?”
    Victoria shook her head, though she had a vague feeling that the face and general appearance were not unknown to her.
    â€œSomebody important in your Government,” suggested Mrs. Clipp.
    â€œI shouldn’t think so,” said Victoria.
    The few members of the Government she had ever seen had impressed her as men anxious to apologize for being alive. Only on platforms did they spring into pompous and didactic life.
    â€œNow then, please,” said the smart nursery governess air hostess. “Take your seats in the plane. This way. As quickly as you can, please.”
    Her attitude implied that a lot of dawdling children had been keeping the patient grown-ups waiting.
    Everybody filed out onto the aerodrome.
    The great plane was waiting, its engine ticking over like the satisfied purring of a gigantic lion.
    Victoria and a steward helped Mrs. Clipp on board and settled her in her seat. Victoria sat next to her on the aisle. Not until Mrs. Clipp was comfortably ensconced, and Victoria had fastened her safety-belt, did the girl have leisure to observe that in front of them was sitting the great man.
    The doors closed. A few seconds later the plane began to move slowly along the ground.
    â€œWe’re really going,” thought Victoria in ecstasy. “Oh, isn’t it frightening? Suppose it never gets up off the ground? Really, I don’t see how it can! ”
    During what seemed an age the plane taxied along the aerodrome, then it turned slowly round and stopped. The engines rose to a ferocious roar. Chewing gum, barley sugar and cotton wool were handed round.
    Louder and louder, fiercer and fiercer. Then, once more, the aeroplane moved forward. Mincingly at first, then faster—faster still—they were rushing along the ground.
    â€œIt will never go up,” thought Victoria, “we’ll be killed.”
    Faster—more smoothly—no jars—no bumps—they were off the ground skimming along up, round, back over the car park and the main road, up, higher—a silly little train puffing below—doll’s houses—toy cars on roads…Higher still—and suddenly the earth below lost interest, was no longer human or alive—just a large flat map with lines and circles and dots.
    Inside the plane people undid their safety belts, lit cigarettes, opened magazines. Victoria was in a new world—a world so many feet long, and a very few feet wide, inhabited by twenty to thirty people. Nothing else existed.
    She peered out of the small window again. Below her were clouds, a fluffy pavement of clouds. The plane was in the sun. Below the clouds somewhere was the world she had known heretofore.
    Victoria pulled herself together. Mrs. Hamilton Clipp was talking. Victoria removed cotton wool from her ears and bent attentively towards her.
    In the seat in front of her, Sir Rupert rose, tossed his wide-brimmed grey felt hat to the rack, drew up his hood over his head and relaxed into his seat.
    â€œPompous ass,” thought Victoria, unreasonably prejudiced.
    Mrs. Clipp was established with a magazine open in front of her. At intervals she nudged Victoria, when on trying to turn the page with one hand, the magazine slipped.
    Victoria looked round her. She decided that air travel was really rather boring. She opened a magazine, found herself faced with anadvertisement that said, “Do you want to increase your efficiency as a shorthand typist?” shuddered, shut the magazine, leant back, and began to think of Edward.
    They came down at Castel Benito Aerodrome in a storm of rain. Victoria was by now feeling slightly sick, and it took all her energies to accomplish her duties vis-à-vis her employer. They were driven through scurrying rain to the rest house. The magnificent Sir