Strangers

leap up the ladder of evolution, breaking away from the chains of human limitations. In the Tranquility Grille tonight, there was a sense of history being made, a sense that nothing in the world would ever be the same again.
        "Do something else," Ginger said.
        "Yes!" Sandy said. "Show us more. Show us more."
        In other parts of the room, other salt shakers flew up from the tables on which they had been standing: six, eight, ten in all. They hung motionless for a moment, then began to spin like the first shaker.
        Instantly, an equal number of pepper shakers took flight and began spinning as well.
        Dom still did not know how he was doing these things; he made no effort to perform each new trick; the thought merely became fact, as if wishes could come true. He suspected that Brendan was equally baffled.
        The jukebox had been silent. Now it began to play a Dolly Parton tune, though no one had punched the programming buttons.
        Did I do that, Dom wondered, or was it Brendan?
        Ginger said, "My God, I'm so excited I'm going to plotz!"
        Laughing, Dom said, "Plotz? What's that one mean?"
        "Bust, explode," Ginger said. "I'm so excited I'm going to bust!"
        Every salt and pepper shaker spun, and the halves of every pair orbited each other, and now all eleven sets began moving around the room in a train, faster, faster, making a soft whoosh as they cut the air, casting off sparks of reflected light.
        Abruptly, a dozen chairs rose off the floor, not in the controlled and playful manner in which the salt and pepper shakers had risen from the tables, but with such violence and momentum that they shot instantly to the ceiling, smashing against that barrier with a deafening clatter. One of the wagonwheel lighting fixtures was struck by two chairs; its lightbulbs burst, and the room was only three-quarters as brightly illuminated as it had been. That wagon wheel broke loose of its anchor brackets and wires, crashing to the floor a few feet behind Dom. The chairs remained against the ceiling, vibrating as if they were a flock of enormous bats hovering on dark wings. Most of the salt and pepper shakers were still whirling maniacally around the room above everyone's head, though a few had been brought down by the upflung chairs. Now, a few more stopped spinning, swung erratically out of their orbits, out of the train as well, wobbled, and shot to the floor. One of them struck Ernie's shoulder, and he cried out in pain.
        Dom and Brendan had lost control. And because they had never known exactly how they had established control in the first place, they did not know how to regain it.
        In a blink, the celebratory mood changed to panic. The onlookers scrambled for shelter under the tables, acutely aware that the levitated chairs - rattling ominously against the ceiling - were potentially far more dangerous missiles than the salt and pepper shakers. The noise awakened Marcie. She sat up in the booth where she had been sleeping, crying now and calling for her mother. Jorja pulled the girl off the booth and scrambled under one of the tables with her, hugging her close, and everyone was out of the line of fire except Brendan and Dom.
        Dom felt as if this psychic power was a live grenade that had been wired irremovably to his hand.
        Overhead, three or four more shakers lost momentum and came down like bullets. The dozen levitated chairs began to bounce against the ceiling more aggressively, shedding small pieces of themselves.
        Dom didn't know if he should dive for cover or attempt to regain control. He looked at Brendan, who was equally paralyzed.
        Overhead, the three remaining wagon-wheel lights swayed wildly on their chains, causing goblin shadows to leap across the room.
        The battering chairs gouged out small chunks of the ceiling.
        A salt shaker dropped in front of Dom, impacting like a tiny meteorite against the table. The glass was too thick to shatter, but the small jar cracked into three or four pieces, flinging up what salt it still contained, and Dom flinched from the white spray.
        Remembering the spinning carrousel of paper moons in Lomack's house six days ago, Dom raised both hands toward the rattling chairs and whirling shakers. Clenching his hands into fists, shutting the red-ring stigmata out of sight, he said, "Stop it. Stop it now. Stop it!"
        Overhead, the