he taxi driver grinned grimly in the rear view mirror, finding it unnecessary to watch the potholed road and suicidal buses and trucks that wove across his path.

"Don't worry Senore, I get you to airport on time, I know short cut." he reassured his passenger.

Clovis was not convinced that he wanted to complete the trip in a body bag, but nodded and smiled nervously at the driver who still stared unwaveringly in the mirror. He clutched his briefcase to his somersaulting stomach and groaned as the car plunged into a large hole in the tarmac. He had rushed his breakfast that morning and now the bacon and egg swimming in grease conspired with the South American roads to give him the worst indigestion he had ever experienced. To cap it all, he was going to miss his plane home.

Clovis recalled the fortnight he had been in Tarantour and mentally added up the number of air-conditioners he had managed to sell to the South Americans. Not enough to pay for a first class ticket home. It seemed that although the locals suffered under the most oppressive and uncomfortable weather in the world, they rather liked it. Whilst the idea of fresh, chilled and perfectly humidified air appealed to traveling Europeans, particularly Clovis who was now mopping the sweat from his forehead with a damp handkerchief, the South Americans were quite content to be hot. Clovis fancied it had something to do with their blood temperature. The business transacted barely covered the extortionate price of his Economy class air ticket. Clovis was not relishing the fourteen hour flight, as he found it impossible to sleep with the roar of air conditioning and screaming of young children. Not to mention the cramped seats and incessant interruptions to be fed and watered. His indigestion stabbed him in the chest for even thinking of food.

The cab screeched to a halt outside the airport accompanied by a cacophony of horns from disgruntled drivers behind. The driver got out and began to unload Clovis's bags, whilst remonstrating with a policeman who waved a gun alternately at him and at sign indicating parking for army vehicles only. Clovis paid the driver and scurried into the safety of the airport.

At the check-in desk the neatly uniformed lady shook her head and clucked her tongue.

"You are very late Senore. You know you should check-in two hours before your flight with this cheap ticket."

"Yes, sorry, I know." Clovis was not sorry at all, in fact it annoyed him to be treated with such thinly veiled contempt. The airline ticket had not been cheap by any stretch of the imagination, and he couldn't help thinking that if he was a First Class passenger they would now be apologizing for not scheduling the plane to fit in with his requirements.

"You will have to go very fast to the plane, Senore, and please carry your bags with you."

By the time Clovis had lumbered down the aisle and jammed his bags into an insubstantial overhead locker, he was red in the face, breathless and sweating. He squeezed past two passengers who refused to get up, and slumped into his seat next to the window. Relieved, he closed his eyes crossed his legs in the cramped space and tried to sleep his way home.

Clovis slept well, until the roar of the air-conditioning brought him to. With his eyes still tight shut he stretched his legs and was pleasantly surprised by the amount of space he had, and the seat felt as comfortable as any he had sat in. His one complaint was that it was a little cold, and the vent seemed to be blowing far too hard.

When he opened his eyes he was more than a little surprised to find that he and the plane had parted company. Where he had been encased in aluminium, plastic, carpet and cloth he was now surrounded by fresh air, above below and around him, and plummeting to earth at an alarming rate. The wind grabbed and tugged at his jacket like hundreds of hands, vainly trying to halt his descent. As he tumbled slowly round, blue sky and green earth flashed alternately through his vision. Clovis's befuddled brain attempted to concoct a rational explanation for his predicament.

South American guerillas seemed most likely, although why any extreme group should have a grudge against European air conditioning salesmen was beyond Clovis. Someone could have packed his case with plastic explosive which had blown him out of the plane. Or perhaps the hotel concierge had slipped a device into his coat in retribution for an insubstantial tip. Clovis vowed to tip more generously in future. Not that a future seemed likely.

He wondered what his chances of survival were. There was a slim chance, he postulated, that he would have a soft landing in a hay stack, or perhaps on the roof of a circus tent although the frequency of either on the modern landscape was not sufficient to guarantee survival. He tried to work out how fast a human body may fall and what size of haystack would be required for a safe landing, and then wondered if yokels still left pitchforks carelessly discarded in them. Maybe if he were to plunge into a pool of water he would have a chance. Clovis tried to imagine how deep the water would have to be to prevent him from ending head down in the mud. Should he dive, as if plunging from the high board at the swimming pool? Or would it be better to curl up in a tight ball? He fancied that if he fell fast enough he might end up being driven right through the earth like a steel pile, dropping unceremoniously into Hell.

Beneath him the blank greenery began to resolve into alarming detail. Groups of trees stood out like broccoli on green felt grass but haystacks were not in evidence and there seemed to have been a drought in the area. Rocks and boulders lay strewn around a hard unyielding ground, ideal for smashing soft bodies. And there was a new sound rising above the thunder of air. It took a few seconds to recognize the drawn-out yell of terror that emanated from his own mouth.

Although he had never practiced a religion, Clovis decided that now would be the right time to hedge his bets and acknowledge the existence of a higher being, to ensure a comfortable afterlife.

He fought against the air currents to clasp his hands together in an attitude of prayer, screwed up his eyes tight, and began to hum "Amazing Grace" which he had once seen performed at a football match. As the ground hurtled towards him, Clovis prayed with an enthusiasm which would have shamed the most beatific of popes and as he prayed, Clovis imagined that hands of wind were gaining a better grip on his clothes.

When Clovis opened his eyes again he was astonished to find that his vertical descent had ceased, and he was flying, fifty feet above the trees. Shock caused him to throw out an arm to balance himself, and he dipped violently to the right. He had not only developed a talent for flying, but he could steer as well. After experimenting with various Superman type postures and gestures Clovis was quite comfortably and enjoyably swooping and gliding through vast arches and buttresses of cloud.

A miracle had saved him. Clovis felt considerably honored that a God who he was barely on speaking terms with should consider him so important as to rescue him in this dramatic manner. There was surely a sainthood in it. He wondered how having "Saint Clovis" on his business cards would effect sales. It would certainly provide openings to air condition churches.

Miracles, by their nature, do not occur every day and when they do they appear more often as crying statues or burning shrubs. Being unfamiliar with the protocol, he wondered whether he would be returned to the plane and wake up remembering nothing, or if God would drop him off at his front door? And could he get his luggage sent on? Clovis decided that this might be a bit much to expect as a first time adulate. Besides, if God carried him and his luggage to his front door, what sort of tip would he expect ?

As Clovis swooped majestically past a startled sparrow, he glimpsed a group of dots in the distance up ahead that on closer inspection he found to be more bemused people experimenting with flight. These he took to be the rest of the aeroplane passengers; the bomb must have been more devastating than he imagined, but he didn't recognize any of his copilots, and no-one appeared to have suffered any serious damage from the blast. God was doling out miracles wholesale today, thought Clovis who felt slightly cheated that he had not been specially chosen. He tried to shout a greeting to a nearby flyer, but air rushed into his open mouth and choked the words. The flyer waved to him and drew away.

Clovis found that although he could maneuver from side to side and vertically his ultimate flight path was converging towards a large white cloud. The sun shone through the cloud giving it the appearance of a massive glowing ball of cotton wool. Around him flying people dived and somersaulted in the air and as the white cloud loomed in front of him, Clovis began to giggle uncontrollably. White tendrils of vapour stretched out towards him and seemed to draw Clovis into the cloud, and enfold him softly, and as his distinct vision faded to bright white light, he noted with satisfaction that his indigestion had completely disappeared.

They found his body when the plane landed. When Clovis had shown no intention of stirring from his sleep the air hostess touched his cold hand and if it wasn't for the heavy application of foundation and blusher, an observer would have seen the blood drain alarmingly from her face. A hastily procured Doctor declared that the unfortunate Clovis had died several hours before of a heart attack but the peaceful smile that graced the dead man's face was evidence that he had not suffered.