Airport

AIRPORT

by ARTHUR HAILEY

All of the characters in this book are
fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This low-priced Bantam Book
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NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
AIRPORT

A Beintam Book / published It I, arrangernent with
Doubleda), & Company, Inc. PRINTING HISTORY Doubleday edition published March 1968 2nd printing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …… March 1968 6th printing Juh, 1968 3rd printing . . . . . . . . . . . . . …… March 1968 7th printing ~ . Jul),1968 4th . . . printing……. April 1968 8th printing . . September 1968 5th. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . printing…….. June 1968 9th printing October 1968 10th printing October 1968 Excerpt appeared in the CHICAGO TRIBUNE March 1968 Literarv Guild edition published April 1968 Reader's Digest Condensed Book Club edition published April 1968 Dollar Book Club edition published Januari, 1969 Bantain edition published Jul " v 1969 2nd printing . . . …….. Julv 1969 6th printing …….. Ju1j, 1969 3rd printing . . . …….. July 1969 7th printing …….. July 1969 4th. . . . . . . . . printing…….. July 1969 Sth printing ….. October 1969 5th. . . . . . . . . printing…….. Juh, 1969 9th printing ….. Januai-), 1970 loth printing Ilth printing All rights reserved. Copyright (K) , 968 hv Arthur Hailev. Ltd.
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Buntion Bookv, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue , Neu, York , N.Y. 10019 , PRINFED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings from High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. (1922-1941) sometime Flight Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Air Force

PART ONE
6:30 P.M.-8:30 P.M. (CST)
At half-past six on a Friday evening in January, Lincoln International Airport , Illinois , was functioning, though with difficulty. The airport was reeling-as was the entire Midwestern United States-from the meanest, roughest winter storm in half a dozen years. The storm had lasted three days. Now, like pustules on a battered, weakened body, trouble spots were erupting steadily. A United Air Lines food truck, loaded with two hundred dinners, was lost and presumably snowbound somewhere on the airport perimeter. A search for the truck-in driving snow and darkness-had so far failed to locate either the missing vehicle or its driver. United's Flight I I I-a non-stop DC-8 for Los Angeles , which the food truck was to service-was already several hours behind schedule. The food snafu would make it later stiff. Similar delays, for varying reasons, were affecting at least a hundred flights of twenty other airlines using Lincoln International. Out on the airfield, runway three zero was out of use, blocked by an A6reo-Mexican jet-a Boeing 707-its wheels deeply mired in waterlogged ground beneath snow, near the runway's edge. Two hours of intensive effort had failed to get the big jet moved. Now, A6reoMexican, having exhausted its own local resources, had appealed to 'IVA for help. Air Traffic Control, hampered by the loss of runway 3 three zero, had instituted flow control procedures, limiting the volume of incoming traffic from adjoining air route centers at Minrieapolis, Cleveland , Kansas City, Indianapolis , and Denver . Despite this, twenty incoming flights were stacked up overhead, and orbiting, some nearing low fuel limits. On the ground, twice that number were readying for takeoff. But until the backlog of flights in the air could be reduced, ATC had ordered further delays of outbound traffic. Meanwhile, terminal gates, taxiways, and ground holding areas were increasingly crammed with waiting aircraft, many with engines running. Air freiQht warehouses-of all airlines-were stacked to their palletized limits with shipments, their usual high speed transit impeded by the storm. Freight supervisors were nervously watching perishables-hothouse flowers from Wyoming for New England; a ton of Pennsylvania cheese for Anchorage , Alaska ; frozen peas for Iceland ; live lobsters-trans-shipped from the east for a polar route flight-destination Europe . The lobsters were for tomorrow's menus in Edinburgh and Paris where they would be billed as "fresh local seafood," and American tourists would order them unknowingly. Storm or not, contracts decreed that air freight perishables must arrive at destination fresh, and swiftly. Causing special anxiety in American Airlines Freight was a shipment of several thousand turkey poults, hatched in incubators only hours earlier. The precise hatching-shipping schedule-like a complex order of battle-was set up weeks ago, before the turkey eggs were laid. It called for delivery of the live birds on the West Coast within forty-eight hours of birth, the limit of the tiny creatures' existence without their first food or water. Normally, the arrangement provided a near-hundred percent survival. Significant also-if the poults were fed en route, they would stink, and so would the airplane conveying them, for days afterward. Already the poults' schedule was out of joint by several hours. But an airplane had been diverted from passenger to freight service, and tonight the fledgling turkeys would have priority over everything else traveling, human VIPs included.
In the main passenger terminal, chaos predominated. Terminal waiting areas were jammed with thousands of passengers from delayed or canceled flights. Baggage, in piles, was everywhere. The vast main concourse had the combined appearance of a football scrimmage and Christmas Eve at Macy's. High on the terminal roof, the airport's immodest slogan, LINCOLN INTERNATIONAL-AVIATION CROSSROADS OF THE WORLD, was entirely obscured by drifting snow. The wonder was, Mel Bakersfeld reflected, that anything was continuing to operate at all. Mel, airport general manager-lean, rangy, and a powerhouse of disciplined energy-was standing by the Snow Control Desk, high in the control tower. He peered out into the darkness. Normally, from this glasswalled room, the entire airport complex-runways, taxi strips, terminals, traffic of the ground and air-was visible like neatly aligned building blocks and models, even at night their shapes and movements well defined by lights. Only one loftier view existed-that of Air Traffic Control which occupied the two floors above. But tonight only a faint blur of a few nearer lights penetrated the almost-opaque curtain of wind-driven snow. Mel suspected this would be a winter to be discussed at meteorologists' conventions for years to come. The present storm had been born five days ago in the lee of the Colorado mountains. At birth it was a tiny low pressure area, no bigger than a foothills homestead, and most forecasters on their air route weather charts had either failed to notice, or ignored it. As if in resentment, the low pressure system thereupon inflated like a giant malignancy and, still growing, swung first southeast, then north. It crossed Kansas and Oklahoma , then paused at Arkansas , gathering assorted nastiness. Next day, fat and monstrous, it rumbled up the Mississippi Valley . Finally, over Illinois the storm unloaded, almost paralyzing the state with blizzard winds, freezing temperatures, and a ten-inch snowfall in twenty-four hours. At the airport, the ten-inch snow had been preceded by a continuous, if somewhat lighter, fall. Now it was being followed by more snow, whipped by vicious winds which piled new drifts-at the same time that plows were clearing the old. Maintenance snow crews were nearing exhaustion. Within the past few hours several men had been ordered home, overfatigued despite their intermittent use of sleeping quarters provided at the airport for just this kind of emergency. At the Snow Control Desk near Mel, Danny Farrow –at other times an assistant airport manager, now snow shift supervisor-was calling Maintenance Snow Center by radiophone. "We're losing the parking lots. I need six more Payloaders and a banjo team at Y-seventy-four." Danny was seated at the Snow Desk, which was not really a desk at all, but a wide, three-position console. Confronting Danny and his two assistants-one on either side-was a battery of telephones, Tel Auto– graphs, and radios. Surrounding them were maps, charts, and bulletin boards recording the state and location of every piece of motorized snow-fighting equipment, as well as men and supervisors. There was a separate board for banjo teams-roving crews with individual snow shovels. The Snow Desk was activated only for its one seasonal purpose. At other times of year, this room remained empty and silent. Danny's bald pate showed sweat globules as he scratched notations on a large-scale airport grid map. He repeated his message to Maintenance, making it sound like a desperate personal plea, which perhaps it was. Up here was the snow clearance command post. Whoever ran it was supposed to view the airport as a whole, juggling demands, and deploying equipment wherever need seemed greatest. A problem thoughand undoubtedly a cause of Danny's sweating-was that those down below, fighting to keep their own operations going, seldom shared the same view of priorities. "Sure, sure. Six more Payloaders." An edgy voice from Maintenance, which was on the opposite side of the airfield, rattled the speakerphone. "We'll get 'em

from Santa Claus. He ought to be around in this lot." A pause, then more aggressively, "Any other damnfool stupid notions?" Glancing at Danny, Mel shook his head. He recognized the speakerphone voice as belonging to a senior foreman who had probably worked continuously since the present snowfall started. Tempers wore thin at times like this, with gopd reason. Usually, after an arduous, snow-fighting winter, airport maintenance and management had an evening stag session together which they called "kiss-and-make-up night." They would certainly need one this year. Danny said reasonably, "We sent four Payloaders after that United food truck. They should be through, or almost.»
«They might be-if we could find the frigging truck.»
«You haven't located it yet? What are you guys doing –having a supper and ladies' night." Danny reached out, turning down the speakerphone volume as a reply slammed back. "Listen, do you birds in the crummy penthouse have any idea what it's like out on the field? Maybe you should look out the windows once in a while. Anybody could be at the goddam North pole tonight and never know the difference.»
«Try blowing on your hands, Ernie," Danny said. "It may keep 'em warm, and it'll stop you sounding off." Mentally, Mel Bakersfeld filtered out most of the exchange, though he was aware that what had been said about conditions away from the terminal was true. An hour ago, Mel had driven across the airfield. He used service roads, but although he knew the airport layout intimately, tonight he had trouble finding his way and several times came close to being lost. Mel had gone to inspect the Maintenance Snow Center and then, as now, activity had been intensive. Where the tower Snow Control Desk was a command post, the Maintenance Snow Center was a front line headquarters. From here, weary crews and supervisors came and went, alternately sweating and freezing, the tanks of regular workers swelled by auxiliaries-carpenters, electricians, plumbers, clerks, police. The auxiliaries were pulled from their regular airport duties and paid time-and-a-half until the snow emergency was over. But they knew what was expected, having rehearsed snow maneuvers, like weekend soldiers, on runways and taxi strips during summer and fall. It sometimes amused outsiders to see snow removal groups, plow blades down, blowers roaring, on a hot, sunny day. But if any expressed surprise at the extent of preparation, Mel Bakersfeld would remind them that removing snow from the airport's operating area was equal to clearing seven hundred miles of highway. Like the Snow Desk in the control tower, the Maintenance Snow Center was activated for its winter function only. It was a big, cavernous room above an airport truck garage and, when in use, was presided over by a dispatcher. Judging from the present radio voice, Mel guessed that the regular dispatcher had been relieved for the time being, perhaps for some sleep in the "Blue Room," as Airport Standing Orders-with a trace of humor-called the snow crews' bunkhouse. The maintenance foreman's voice came on the radiophone again. "We're worried about that truck too, Danny. The poor bastard of a driver could freeze out there. Though if he has any gumption, he isn't starving." The UAL food truck had left the airline flight kitchen for the main terminal nearly two hours ago. Its route lay around the perimeter track, a journey which usually took fifteen minutes. But the truck had failed to arrive, and obviously the driver had lost his way and was snowbound somewhere in the airport boondocks. United flight dispatch had first sent out its own search party, without success. Now airport management had taken over. Mel said, "That United flight finally took off, didn't it? Without food." Danny Farrow answered without looking up. "I hear the captain put it to the passengers. Told them it'd take an hour to get another truck, that they had a movie and liquor aboard, and the sun was shining in California . Everybody voted to get the hell out. I would, too." Mel nodded, resisting a temptation to take over and direct the search himself for the missing truck and driver. Action would be a therapy. The cold of several days, and dampness with it, had made Mel's old war injury ache again-a reminder of Korea which never left him-and he could feel it now. He shifted, leaning, letting the good foot take his weight. The relief was momentary. Almost at once, in the new position, the ache resumed. He was glad, a moment later, that he had not interfered. Danny was already doing the right thing-intensifying the truck search, pulling plows and men from the terminal area and directing them to the perimeter road. For the time being, the parking lots would have to be abandoned, and later there would be plenty of beefs about that. But the missing driver must be saved first. Between calls, Danny warned Mel, "Brace yourself for more complaints. This seaxch'Il block the perimeter road. We'll hold up all the other food trucks till we find the guy. 11 Mel nodded. Complaints were a stock-in-trade of an airport manager's job. In this case, as Danny predicted, there would be a flood of protests when other airlines realized their food trucks were not getting through, whatever the reason. There were some who would find it hard to believe that a man could be in peril of death from exposure at a center of civilization like an airport, but it could happen just the same. The lonelier limits of the airport were no place to wander without bearings on a night like this. And if the driver decided to stay with his truck and keep the motor running for warmth, it could quickly be covered by drifts, with deadly carbon monoxide accu– mulating beneath. With one hand, Danny was using a red telephone; with the other, leafing through emergency orders-Mel's orders, carefully drawn up for occasions such as this. The red phone was to the airport's duty fire chief. Danny summarized the situation so far. "And when we locate the truck, let's get an ambulance out there, and you may need an inhalator or heat, could be both. But better not roll until we know where exactly. We don't want to dig you guys out, too." The sweat, in increasing quantity, was gleaming on Danny's balding head. Mel was aware that Danny disliked running the Snow Control Desk and was happier in his own department of air-port planning, sifting logistics and hypotheses of aviation's future. Such things were comfortably projected well ahead, with time to think, not disconcertingly here-and-now like the problems of tonight. Just as there were people who lived in the past, Met thought, for the Danny Farrows, the future was a refuge. But, unhappy or not, and despite the sweat, Danny was coping. Reaching over Danny's shoulder, Mel picked up a direct line phone to Air Traffic Control. The tower watch chief answered. "What's the story on that A6reo-Mexican 707? «
«Still there, Mr. Bakersfeld. They've been working a couple of hours trying to move it. No luck yet." That particular trouble had begun shortly after dark when an A6reo-Mexican captain, taxiing out for takeoff, mistakenly passed to the right instead of left of a blue taxi light. Unfortunately, the ground to the right, which was normally grass covered, had a drainage problem, due to be worked on when winter ended. Meanwhile, despite the heavy snow, there was still a morass of mud beneath the surface. Within seconds of its wrong-way turn, the hundred and twenty ton aircraft was deeply mired. When it became obvious that the aircraft could not get out, loaded, under its own power, the disgruntled passengers were disembarked and helped through mud and snow to hastily hired buses. Now, more than two hours later, the big jet was still stuck, its fuselage and tail blocking ninway three zero. Mel inquired, "The runway and taxi strip are still out of use?"
"Affirmative," the tower chief reported. "We're holding all outbound traffic at the gates, then sending them the long route to the other runways.»
«Pretty slow? «
«Slowing us fifty percent. Right now we're holding ten flights for taxi clearance, another dozen waiting to start engines." It was a demonstration, Mel reflected, of how urgently the airport needed additional runways and taxiways. For three years he had been urging construction of a new runway to parallel three zero, as well as other operational improvements. But the Board of Airport Commissioners, under political pressure from downtown, refused to approve. The pressure was because city councilmen, for reasons of their own, wanted to avoid a new bond issue which would be needed for financing. "The other thing," the tower watch chief said, "is that with three zero out of use, we're having to route takeoffs over Meadowood. The complaints have started co i g in already." Mel groaned. The community of Meadowood, which adjoined the southwest hinits of the airfield, was a constant thom to himself and an impediment to flight operations. Though the airport had been established long before the community, Meadowood's residents complained incessantly and bitterly about noise from aircraft overhead. Press publicity followed. It attracted even more complaints, with increasingly bitter denunciations of the airport and its management. Eventually, after long negotiations involving politics, more publicity and –in Mel Bakerfeld's opinion-gross misrepresentation, the airport and the Federal Aviation Administration had conceded that jet takeoffs and landings directly over Meadowood would be made only when essential in special circumstances. Since the airport was already lim.ited in its available runways, the loss in efficiency was considerable. Moreover, it was also agreed that aircraft taking off toward Meadowood would-almost at once after becoming airborne-follow noise abatement procedures. This, in turn, produced protests from pilots, who consid– ered the procedures dangerous. T'he airlines, however –conscious of the public furor and their corporate images-had ordered the pilots to conform. Yet even this failed to satisfy the Meadowood residents. Their militant leaders were still protesting, organizing, and-according to latest rumors-planning legal harassment of the airport. Mel asked the tower watch chief, "How many calls bave there been?" Even before the answer, he decided glumly that still more hours of his working days were going to be consumed by delegations, argument, and the same insoluble discussions as before. "I'd say fifty at least, we've answered; and there've been others we haven't. The phones start ringing right after every takeoff-our unlisted lines, too. I'd give a lot to know how they get the numbers. »
«I suppose you've told the people who've called that we've a special situation-the storm, a runway out of use.»
«We explain. But nobody's interested. They just want the airplanes to stop coming over. Some of 'em say that problems or not, pilots are still supposed to use noise abatement procedures, but tonight they aren't doing it.»
«Good God!-if I were a pilot neither would L" How could anyone of reasonable intelligence, Mel wondered, expect a pilot, in tonight's violent weather, to chop back his power immediately after takeoff, and then go into a steeply banked turn on instruments-which was what noise abatement procedures called for. "I wouldn't either," the tower chief said. "Though I guess it depends on your point of view. If I lived in Meadowood, maybe I'd feel the way they do.»
«You wouldn't live in Meadowood. You'd have listened to the warnings we gave people, years ago, not to build houses there.»
«I guess so. By the way, one of my people told me there's another community meeting over there tonight.»
«In this weather? «
«Seems they still plan to hold it, and the way we heard, they're cooking up something new."
"Whatever it is," Mel predicted, "we'll hear about it soon." Just the same, he reflected, if there was a public meeting at Meadowood, it was a pity to provide fresh ammunition so conveniently. Almost certainly the press and local politicians would be present, and the direct flights overhead, however necessary at this moment, would give them plenty to write and talk about. So the sooner the blocked runway-three zero-was back in use, the better it would be for all concerned. "In a little while," he told the tower chief, "I'll go out on the field myself and see what's happening. I'll let you know what the situation is.»
«Right.,~ Changing the subject, Mel inquired, "Is my brother on duty tonight? «
«Affirmative. Keith's on radar watch-west arrival." West arrival, Mel knew, was one of the tough, tense positions in the tower. It involved supervising all incoming flights in the west quadrant. Mel hesitated, then remembered he had known the tower watch chief a long time. "Is Keith all right? Is he showing any strain?" There was a slight pause before the answer. "Yes, he is. I'd say more than usual." Between the two men was the knowledge that Mel's younger brother had lately been a source of anxiety to them both. "Frankly," the tower chief said, "I wish I could let him take things easier. But I can't. We're short-staffed and everybody is under the gun." He added, "Including me.9~ "I know you are, and I appreciate your watching out for Keith the way you have.»
«Well, in this job most of us have combat fatigue at one time or another." Mel could sense the other choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes it shows up in the mind, sometimes in the gut. Either way, when it happens we try to help each other.»
«Thanks." The conversation had not eased Mel's anxiety. "I may drop in later.»
«Right, sir." Thetower chief hung up. The "sir" was strictly a courtesy. Mel bad no authority over ATC, which answered only to the Federal Aviation Administration with headquarters in Washington . But relationships between controllers and airport management were good, and Mel saw to it they stayed that way. An airport, any airport, was an odd complexity of overlapping authority. No single individual had supreme command, yet no one segment was entirely independent. As airport general manager, Mel's was closest to an over-all assignment, but there were areas where be knew better than to intrude. Air Traffic Control was one, airline internal management another. He could, and did, intervene in matters affecting the airport as a whole or the welfare of people using it. He could peremptorily order an airline to remove a door sign which was misleading or faded to conform to terminal standards. But what went on behind the doors was, within reason, the airline's exclusive business. This was why an airport manager needed to be a tactician as well as versatile administrator. Mel replaced the Snow Desk telephone. On another line, Danny Farrow was arguing with the parking lot supervisor, a harassed individual who for several hours had been fielding irate complaints from marooned car owners. People were asking: didn't whoever ran the airport know it was snowing? And if they did, why didn't someone get on the ball and move the stuff so a man could drive his car anywhere at any time, as was his democratic right? "Tell 'em we declared a dictatorship." The non-covered lots, Danny insisted, would have to wait until priorities eased. He would send men and equipment when he could. He was interrupted by a call from the tower watch chief. A new weather forecast predicted a wind shift in an hour. It would mean a change of runways, and could they hurry the plowing of runway one seven, left? He would do his best, Danny said. He'd check with the Conga Line supervisor and call the tower back. It was the kind of pressure, unremitting, which had gone on for three days and nights since the present

snowfall started. The fact that the pressure had been met made affl the more irritating a note, delivered to Met by messenger, fifteen minutes ago. The note read: M thought slid warn u-airlines snow committee (on vern demerest's urging. . . why does your bro-in-law dislike you?) filing critical report becos runways & taxiways snow clearance (v. d. says) lousy, inefficient … report blames airport (meaning u) for main hunk of flight delays … also claims stuck 707 wouldn't have if taxiway plowed sooner, better. . . so now all airlines being penalized, etc, etc, you get the drift … and where are youin one? (drift, i mean) … climb out & buy me coffee soon.

luv t The "t" was for Tanya-Tanya Livingston, passenger relations agent for Trans America , and a special friend of Mel's. Mel read the note again, as he usually did messages from Tanya, which became clearer the second time around. Tanya, whose job straddled troubleshooting and public relations, objected to capitals. ("Mel, doesn't it make sense? If we abolished capitals there'd be scads less trouble. Just look at the newspapers.") She had actually coerced a Trans America mechanic into chiseling all capitals from the typebars of her office typewriter. Someone higher up raised bob about that, Mel had heard, quoting the airline's rigid rule about willful damage to company property. Tanya had got away with it, though. She usually did. The Vern Demerest in the note was Captain Vernon Demerest, also of Trans America. As well as being one of the airline's more senior captains, Demerest was a militant campaigner for the Air Line Pilots Association, and, this season, a member of the Airlines Snow Committee at Lincoln International. The committee inspected runways and taxiways during snow periods and pronounced them fit, or otherwise, for aircraft use. It always included an active flying captain. Vernon Demerest also happened to be Mel's brother-in-law, married to Mel's older sister, Sarah. The Bakersfeld clan, through precedent and marriage, had roots and branches in aviation, just as older families were once allied with seafaring. However, there was little cordiality between Mel and his brother-in-law, whom Mel considered conceited and pompous. Others, he knew, held the same opinion. Recently, Mel and Captain Demerest had had an angry exchange at a meeting of the Board of Airport Commissioners, where Demerest appeared on behalf of the pilots' association. Mel suspected that the critical snow report-apparently initiated by his brother-in-law-was in retaliation. Mel was not greatly worried about the report. Whatever shortcomings the airport might have in other ways, he knew they were coping with the storm as well as any organization could. Just the same, the report was a nui– sance. Copies would go to all airlines, and tomorrow there would be inquiring phone calls and memos, and a need for explanations. Mel supposed he had better stay briefed, in readiness. He decided he would make an inspection of the present snow clearance situation at the same time that he was out on the airfield checking on the blocked runway and the mired Afteo-Mexican jet. At the Snow Desk, Danny Far-row was talking with Airport Maintenance again. When there was a moment's break, Mel interjected, "I'll. be in the terminal, then on the field." He had remembered what Tanya said in her note about having coffee together. He would stop at his own office first, then, on his way through the terminal, he would drop by Trans America to see her. The thought excited him.
2
Mel used the private elevator, which operated by passkey only, to descend from the tower to the administrative mezzanine. Though his own office suite was silent, with stenographers' desks cleared and typewriters covered, the lights had been left on. He entered his own interior office. From a closet, near the wide mahogany desk he used in daytime, he took out a heavy topcoat and fur-lined boots. Tonight Mel himself was without specific duties at the airport. This was as it should be. The reason he had stayed, through most of the three-day storm, was to be available for emergencies. Otherwise, he mused, as he pulled on the boots and laced them, by now he would have been home with Cindy and the children. Or would he? No matter how objective you tried to be, Mel reasoned, it was hard to be sure of your own real motives. Probably, if it had not been the storm, something else would have arisen to justify not going. Not going home, in fact, seemed lately to have become the pattern of his life. His job was a cause, of course. It provided plenty of reasons to remain extra hours at the airport, where lately there had been big problems facing him, quite apart from tonight's imbroglio. But-if he was honest with himself-the airport also offered an escape from the incessant wrangling between himself and Cindy which seemed to occur nowadays whenever they spent time together. "Oh, hell!" Mel's exclamation cut across the silence of the office. He plodded in the fur-lined boots toward his desk. A glance at a typed reminder from his secretary confirmed what he had just recalled. Tonight there was another of his wife's tedious charity affairs. A week ago, reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend. It was a cocktail party and dinner (so the typed note said), downtown at the swank Lake Michigan Inn. What the charity was, the note didn't specify, and, if it bad ever been mentioned, be had since forgotten. It made no difference, though. The causes with which Cindy Bakersfeld involved herself were depressingly similar. The test of worthiness-as Cindy saw it-was the social eminence of her fellow committee members. Fortunately, for the sake of peace with Cindy, the starting time was late-almost two hours from now and in view of tonight's weather, it might be even later. So he could still make it, even after inspecting the airfield. Mel could come back, shave and change in his office, and be downtown only a little late. He had better warn Cindy, though. Using a direct outside line, Mel dialed his home number. Roberta, his elder daughter, answered. "Hi," Mel said. "This is your old man." Roberta's voice came coolly down the line. "Yes, I know.»
«How was school today? «
«Could you be specific, Father? There were several classes. Which do you want to know about?" Mel sighed. There were days on which it seemed to him that his home life was disintegrating all at once. Roberta, he could tell, was in what Cindy called one of her snotty moods. Did all fathers, he wondered, abruptly lose communication with their daughters at age thirteen? Less than a year ago, the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel loved both his daughters deeply-Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby. There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage had survived. As to Roberta, he had known that as a teen-ager she would develop interests which he could neither share nor wholly understand. He had been prepared for this. What he had not expected was to be shut out entirely or treated with a mixture of indifference and condescension. Though, to be objective, he supposed the increasing strife between Cindy and himself bad not helped. Children were sensitive. "Never mind," Mel said. "Is your mother home?"
"She went out. She said if you phoned to tell you you have to be downtown to meet her, and for once try not to be late." Mel curbed his irritation. Roberta was undoubtedly repeating Cind ' v's words exactly. He could almost hear his wife saying them. "If your mother calls, tell her I might have to be a little late, and that I can't help it." There was a silence, and he asked, "Did you hear me? «
«Yes," Roberta said. "Is there anything else, Father? I have homework to do." He snapped back, "Yes, there is something else. You'll change your tone of voice, young lady, and show a little more respect. Furthermore, we'll end this conversation when I'm good and ready.»
«If you say so, Father.»
«And stop calling me Father! «
«Very well, Father." Met was tempted to laugh, then supposed he had better not. He asked, "Is everything all right at home? «
«Yes. But Libby wants to talk to you.»
«In a minute. I was just going to tell you-because of the storm I *may not be home tonight. There's a lot happening at the airport. I'll probably come back and sleep here." Again a pause, as if Roberta was weighing whether or not she could get away with a smart answer: So what else is new? Apparently she decided not. "Will you speak to Libby now? «
«Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie.»
«Goodnight." There was an impatient shuffle as the telephone changed hands, then Libby's small breathless voice. "Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!" Libby was always breathless as if, to a seven-yearold, life were excitingly on the run and she must forever keep pace or be left behind. "Let me think," Mel said. "I know-you had fun in the snow today.»
«Yes, I did, But it wasn't that.»
«Then I can't guess. You'll have to tell me.»
«Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all the good things we think will happen next month." He thought affectionately: he could understand Libby's enthusiasm. To her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which were not were brushed aside and speedily forgotten. He wondered how much longer her happy innocence would last. "That's nice," Mel said. "I like that.»
«Daddy, Daddy! Will you help me? «
«If I can.»
«I want a map of February." Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes seemed more expressive than conventional words. It occurred to him that he could use a map of February himself. "There's a calendar in my desk in the den." Mel told her where to find it and heard her small feet running from the room, the telephone forgotten. It was Roberta, Mel assumed, who silently hung up. From the general manager's office suite, Mel walked onto the executive mezzanine which ran 'the length of the main terminal building. He carried the heavy topcoat with him. Pausing, he surveyed the thronged concourse below, which seemed to have become even busier within the past half-hour. In waiting areas, every available seat was occupied. Newsstands and information booths were ringed by crowds, among them many military uniforms. In front of all airline passenger counters were line-ups, some extending around corners out of sight. Behind the counters, ticket agents and supervisors, their normal numbers swelled by colleagues from earlier shifts retained on overtime, had schedules and passage coupons spread out like orchestral scores. Delays and reroutings which the storm had caused were taxing both scheduling and human patience. Immediately below Met, at Braniff ticketing, a youngish man with long, blond hair and a yellow scarf was proclaiming loudly, "You've the effrontery to tell me I must

go to Kansas City to get to New Orleans . You people are rewriting geography! You're mad with power!" The ticket agent facing him, an attractive brunette in her twenties, brushed a band over her eyes before answering with professional patience, "We can route you directly, sir, but we don't know when. Because of the weather, the longer way will be faster and the fare is the same. " Behind the yellow-scarfed man, more passengers with other problems pressed forward urgently. At the United counter, a small pantomime was being played. A would-be passenger-a well-dressed businessman-leaned for-ward, speaking quietly. By the man's expression and actions, Mel Bakersfeld could guess what was being said. "I would very much like to get on that next flight.»
«I'm sorry, sir, the flight is fully booked. There's also a long standby . . ." Before the ticket agent could complete his sentence, he glanced up. The passenger had laid his briefcase on the counter in front of him. Gently, but pointedly, he was tapping a plastic baggage tag against a corner of the case. It was a 100,000-Mile Club tag, one of those United issued to its favored friendsan inner elite which all airlines had helped create. The agent's expression changed. His voice became equally low. "I think we'll manage something, sir." The agent's pencil hovered, crossed out the name of another passenger-an earlier arrival whom he had been about to put on the flight-and inserted the newcomer's name instead. The action was unobserved by those in line behind. The same kind of thing, Mel knew, went on at all airline counters everywhere. Only the naYve or uninformed believed wait lists and reservations were operated with unwavering impartiality. Met observed that a group of new arrivals-presumably from downtown-was entering the terminal. They were beating off snow from their clothing as they came in, and judging from their appearance, it seemed that the weather outside must be worsening. The newcomers were quickly absorbed in the general crowds. Few among the eighty thousand or so air travelers who thronged the terminal daily ever glanced up at the executive mezzanine, and fewer still were aware of Mel tonight, high above them, looking down. Most people who thought about airports did so in terms of airlines and airplanes. It was doubtful if many were even aware that executive offices existed or that an administrative machine-unseen, but complex and employing hundreds-was constantly at work, keeping the airport functioning. Perhaps it was as well, Mel thought, as he rode the elevator down again. If people became better informed, in time they would also learn the airport's weaknesses and dangers, and afterward fly in and out with less assurance than before. On the main concourse, he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. "Evening, Mr. Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?" No matter how busy the airport became, Mel thought, there would always be time for gossip. He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya's had been linked already. "Yes," be said. "I was." The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY. "You'll find her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld. We just had a bit of a crisis here. She's taking care of it." 3
In a small private lounge which was sometimes used for VIPs, the young girl in the uniform of a Trans America ticket agent was sobbing hysterically. Tanya Livingston steered her to a chair. "Make your-
self comfortable," Tanya said practically, "and take your time. You'll feel better afterward, and when you're ready we can talk." Tanya sat down herself, smoothing her trim, tight uniform skirt. There was no one else in the room, and the only sound-apart from the crying-was the faint hum of air-conditioning. There was fifteen years or so difference in age between the two women. The girl was not much more than twenty, Tanya in her late thirties. Watching, Tanya felt the gap to be greater than it was. It came, she supposed, from having been exposed to marriage, even though briefly and a long time ago-or so it seemed. She thouorht: it was the second time she had been conscious of her age today. The first was while combing her hair this morning; she had seen telltale strands of gray among the short-cropped, flamboyant red. There was more of the gray than last time she had checked a month or so ago, and both occasions were reminders that her forties-by which time a woman ought to know where she was going and why-were closer than she liked to think about. She had another thought: in fifteen years from now, her own daughter would be the same age as the girl who was crying. The girl, whose name was Patsy Smith, wiped reddened eyes with a large linen handkerchief which Tanya had given her. She spoke with difficulty, choking back more tears. "They wouldn't talk that way … so mean, rudely … at home . . . not to their wives.»
«You mean passengers wouldn't?" The girl nodded. "Some would," Tanya said. "When you're married, Patsy, you may find out, though I hope not. But if you're telling me that men behave like adolescent boors when their travel plans get crossed up, I'll agree with you. 11 "I was doing my best We all were . . . All day today; and yesterday … the day before … But the way people talk to you . . .»
«You mean they act as if you started the storm yourself. Especially to inconvenience them.»
«Yes … And then that last man … Until him, I was all right . . .»
«What happened exactly? They called me when it was all over." The girt was beginning to regain control of herself. "Well … he had a ticket on Flight 72, and that was canceled because of weather. We got him a seat on 114, and he missed it. He said he was in the dining room and didn't hear the flight called.»
«Flight announcements aren't made in the di i g room," Tanya said. "There's a big notice saying so, and its on all the menus.»
«I explained that, Mrs. Livingston, when he came back from the departure gate. But he was still nasty. He was going on as if it were my fault he'd missed the flight, not his. He said we were all inefficient and half asleep.»
«Did you call your supervisor? «
«I tried to, but he was busy. We all were.»
«So what did you do? «
«I got the passenger a seat-on the extra section, 2122.»
«And? «
«He wanted to know what movie was showing on the flight. I found that out, and he said he'd seen it. He got nasty again. The movie he'd wanted to see was on the first flight which was canceled. He said, could I get him another flivht which was showing the same movie as the first one? All the time, there were other passengers; they were pressing up a(Zainst the counter. Some were making remarks out loud about how slow I was. Well, when he said that about the movie, that was when I The girl hesitated. "I guess something snapped." Tanya prompted, "That was when you threw the timetable?" Patsy Smith nodded miserably. She looked as if she were going to cry again. "Yes. I don't know what got into me, Mrs. Livingston . . . I threw it right over the counter. I told him he could fix his own flight.»
«All I can say," Tanya said, "is that I hope you hit him."
The girl looked up. In place of tears, there was the beginning of a smile. "Oh, yes; I did." She thought, then giggled. "You should have seen his face. He was so surprised." Her expression became serious. "Then, after that . . .»
«I know what happened after that. You broke down, which was a perfectly natural thing to do. You were sent in here to finish your cry, and now you have, you're going home in a taxi." The girl looked bemused. "You mean … that's all? «
«Certainly it's all. Did you expect us to fire you? «
«I . . . I wasn't sure.»
«We might have to," Tanya said, "much as we'd disRe it, Patsy, if you did the same thing again. But you won't, will you? Not ever." ne girl shook her head firmly. "No, I won't. I can't explain, but having done it just once is enough.»
«That's the end of it,, then. Except that you might like to hear what happened after you left.»
«Yes, please.»
«A man came forward. He was one of those in the line-up, and he said he heard, and saw, the whole thing. He also said he had a daughter the same age as you, and ff the first man had talked to his daughter the same way he talked to you, he would personally have punched him in the nose. Then the second man-the one from the line-up-left his name and address, and said if the man you had been talking to ever made any kind of complaint, to let him know and he would report what really happened." Tanya smiled. "So, you see-there are nice people, too.»
«I know," the girl said. "T'here aren't many, but when you do get one like that, who's nice to you, and cheerful, you feel you want to hug him.»
«Unfortunately we can't do that, any more than we should throw timetables. Our job is to treat everyone alike, and be courteous, even when passengers are not.»
«Yes, Mrs. Livingston ." Patsy Smith would be all right, Tanya decided. Apparently, she hadn't thought of quitting, as some airls did who suffered simflar experiences. In fact, now that she was over her emotion, Patsy seemed to have the kind of resilience which would be helpful to her in future. God knows, Tanya thought, you needed resilienceand some toughness-in dealing with the traveling public, whatever job you held. Take Reservations. Downtown in reservation departments, she was aware, personal pressures would be even greater than at the airport. Since the storm began, reservation clerks would have made thousands of calls advising passengers of delays and rearrangements. It was a job the clerks all hated because people whom they catled were invariably bad-tempered and frequently abusive. Airline delays seemed to arouse a latent savagery in those affected by them. Men talked insultingly to women telepbonists, and even people who at other times were courteous and mild-mannered, turned snarly and disagreeable. New York-bound flights were worst of all. Reservation clerks had been known to refuse the assignment of telephoning news of delay or cancellation to a flight load of passengers destined for New York , preferring to risk their jobs rather than face the torrent of invective they knew awaited them. Tanya had often speculated on what it was about New York which infected those headed there with a kind of medicine-dance fervor to arrive. But, for whatever reasons, she knew there would be resignations among airline staffs-in Reservations and elsewhere-when the present emergency was over. There always were. A few nervous breakdowns could be counted on, too, usually among the younger girls, more sensitive to passengers' rudeness and ill humor. Constarit politeness, even when you were trained for it, was a strain which took a heavy toll. She was glad, though, that Patsy Smith would not be among the casualties. There was a knock at the outer door. It opened, and Mel Bakersfeld leaned in. He was wearing fleece-lined boots and carrying a heavy topcoat. "I was coming by," he told Tanya. "I can drop back later, if you like."
"Please stay." She smiled a welcome. "We've almost finished." She watched him as he walked to a chair across the room. He looked tired, Tanya thought. She switched her attention back, filled in a voucher, and handed it to the girl. "Give this to the taxi dispatcher, Patsy, and he'll send you home. Have a good night's rest, and we'll expect you back tomorrow, bright and breezy." When the girl bad gone, Tanya swung her chair around to face Mel's. She said brightly, "Hullo." He put down a newspaper he had been glancing at, and grinned. "Hi! «
«You got my note? «
«I came to thank you for it. Though I might have made it here without." Gesturing to the door through which the girl had gone, he asked, "What was all that about? Battle fatigue? «
«Yes." She told him what had happened. Mel laughed. "I'm tired, too. How about sending me off in a taxi?" Tanya looked at him, inquiringly. Her eyes-a bright, clear blue-had a quality of directness. Her head was tilted, and an overhead light reflected red highlights from her bair. A slim figure, yet with a fullness which the trim airline uniform heightened . . . Mel was conscious, as at other times, of her desirability and warmth. "I might consider it," she said. "If the taxi goes to my place, and you let me cook you dinner. Say, a Lamb Casserole."' He hesitated, weighing conflicting claims, then reluctantly shook his head. "I wish I could. But we've some trouble here, and afterward I have to be downtown." He got up. "Let's have coffee, anyway.»
«All right." Mel held the door open, and they went out into the bustling, noisy main concourse. There was a press of people around the Trans America counter, even greater than when Mel had arrived. "I mustn't take long," Tanya said. "I've stiR two hours more on duty." As they threaded their way through the crowds and increasing piles of luggage, she moderated her normally brisk pace to Mel's slower one. He was limping rather more than usual, she noticed. She found herself wanting to take his arm and help him, but supposed she had better not. She was still in Trans America uniform. Gossip spread fast enough without helping it actively. The two of them had been seen a good deal lately in each other's company, and Tanya was sure that the airport rumor machine-which operated like a jungle telegraph with IBM speed-had already taken note. Probably it was assumed that she and Mel were bedding down together, though, as it happened, that much was untrue. They were headed for the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop in the central lobby. "About that Lamb Casserole," Mel said. "Could we make it another night? Say, the day after tomorrow?" The sudden invitation from Tanya had surprised him. Although they had had several dates together-for drinks or dinner-until now she had not suggested visiting her apartment. Of course, going there could be for dinner only. Still there was always the possibility that it might not. Lately, Mel had sensed that if their meetings away from the airport continued, there could be a natural and obvious progression. But he had moved cautiously, instinct warning him that an affair with Tanya would be no casual romance but a deeply emotional involvement for them both. A consideration, also, was his own problems with Cindy. Those were going to take a lot of working out, if they could be worked out at all, and there was a limit to the number of complications a man could handle at one time. It was a strange commentary, be thought, that when a marriage was secure it seemed easier to manage an affair than when the same marriage was shaky. Just the same, Tanya's invitation seemed too enticing to pass up. "The day after tomorrow is Sunday," she pointed out. "But I'll be off duty, and if you can manage it, I'll have more time."
Mel grinned. "Candies and wine?" He had forgotten it would be Sunday. But he would have to come to the airport anyway because, even if the storm moved on, there would be aftereffects. As to Cindy, there had been several Sundays when she had been out, herself, without an announced reason. Momentarily, Met and Tanya separated as she dodged a hurrying, florid-faced man, followed by a redcap with a loaded luggage cart, topped by golf clubs and tennis rackets. Wherever that load was going, Tanya thought enviously, it was a long way south. "Okay," she said when they rejoined. "Candles and wine." As they entered the coffee shop, a pert hostess recognized Mel and ushered him, ahead of others, to a small table at the rear, marked RESERVED, which airport officials often used. About to sit down, be stumbled slightly and grasped Tanya's arm. The observant hostess flicked her eyes over them both with a half-smfle. Rumor machine, stand by for a bulletin, Tanya thought. Aloud, she said, "Did you ever see such crowds? This has been the wildest three days I remember." Mel glanced around the packed coffee shop, its bedlam of voices punctuated by the clatter of dishes. He nodded toward the outer door through which they could both see a moving, surging swarm of people. "If you think this is a big horde tonight, wait until the civil version of the C-5A goes into service.»
«I know-we can barely cope with the 747s; but a thousand passengers arriving all at once at a check-in counter … God help us!" Tanya shuddered. "Can you imagine what it'll be like when they collect their bag– gage? I don't even want to think about it.»
«Nor do a good many other people-who ought to be thinking about it, right now." He was amused to find that their conversation bad already drifted into aviation. Airplanes and airlines held a fascination for Tanya, and she liked talking about them. So did Mel, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed her company. "Which people aren't thinking? «
«Those who control policy on the ground-airport and air traffic. Most are acting as if today's jets will fly forever. They seem to believe that if everybody keeps quiet and std], the new, big airplanes will go away and not bother us. That way we needn't have ground facilities to match them." Tanya said thoughtfully, "But there's a lot of building at airports. Wherever you go, you see it." Mel offered her a cigarette and she shook her head negatively. He lit one for himself before answering. "Mostly the building going on is patchwork-changes and additions to airports built in the 1950s or early '60s. There's little that's farseeing. There are exceptions – Los Angeles is one; Tampa , Florida , and Dallas-Fort Worth are others; they'll be the first few airports in the world ready for the new mammoth jets and supersonics. Kansas City , Houston , and Toronto look good; San Francisco has a plan, though it may get sunk politicatly. In North America there's not much else that's impressive.»
«How about Europe ? «
«Europe is routine," Mel said, "except for Paris –the new Nord airport to replace Le Bourget will be among the finest yet. London is the kind of inefficient mess which only the English can create." He paused, consid– ering. "We shouldn't knock other countries, though; back home is bad enough. New York is frightening, even with changes being made at Kennedy; there simply isn't enough airspace above New York –I'm thinking of traveling there by train in future. Washington , D.C. , is floundering-Washington National's a Black Hole of Calcutta ; Dulles was a giant step sideways. And Chicago will wake up one day to find it let itself get twenty years behind." fie stopped, considering. "You remember a few years ago, when the jets first started flying-what conditions were like at airports which had been designed for DC-4s and Constellations.»
«I remember," Tanya said. "I worked at one. On normal days you couldn't move for the crowds; on busy days you couldn't breathe. We used to say it was like hoidin(y thc World Series in a sand lot." ,,what's coming in the 1970s," Mel predicted, "is

going to be worse, far worse. And not just people congestion. We'll be choking on other things, too.»
«Such as what? «
«Airways and traffic control for one, but that's another whole story. The really big thing, which most airport planning hasn't caught on to yet, is that we're moving toward the day-fast-wben air freight business wfll be bigger than passenger traffic. The same thing's been true with every form of transportation, starting with the birchbark canoe. To begin with, people are carried, plus a little freight; but before long, there's more freight than people. In airline business we're already closer to that than is generally known. When freight does get to be top dog-as will happen in the next ten years or so-a lot of our present airport ideas will be obsolete. If you want a sign of the way things are moving, watch some of the young men who are going into airline management now. Not long ago, hardly anybody wanted to work in air freight departments; it was backroorn stuff; passenger business had the glamour. Not any more! Now the bright boys are heading for air freight. They know that's where the future and the big promotions lie." Tanya laughed. "I'll be old-fashioned and stick with people. Somehow freight . . ." A waitress came to their table. "The special's off, and if we get many more people in here tonight, there won't be much else either." They ordered coffee, Tanya cinnamon toast, and Mel a fried egg sandwich. When the waitress had gone, Mel grinned. "I guess I started to make a speech. I'm sorry.»
«Maybe you need the practice." She regarded him curiously. "You haven't made many lately.»
«I'm not president of the Airport Operators Council any more. I don't get to Washington as much, or other places either." But it was not the whole reason for not making speeches and being less in the public eye. He suspected Tanya knew it. Curiously, it was a speech of Mel's which had brought them together to begin with. At one of the rare interline meetings which airlines held, he had talked about coming developments in aviation, and the lag in ground organization compared with progress in the air. He had used the occasion as a dry run for a speech he intended to deliver at a national forum a week or so later. Tanya had been among the Trans America contingent, and next day had sent him one of her lower case notes: mr. b spch great. all'v us earthside slaves cheering u 4 admitting airport policymakers asleep at drawing boards. somebody needed 2 say it. mind suggestion? wd all be more alive if fewer fax, more abt people…. passenger, once inside belly (airplane or whale, remember jonah?) thinks only of self, not system much. i'll bet orville/wilbur felt same way once off ground. wright? ti As well as amusing him, the note bad caused him to think. It was true, he realized-he had concentrated on facts and systems to the exclusion of people as individuals. He revised his speech notes, shifting the emphasis as Tanya suggested. The result was the most successful presentation he had ever made. It gained him an ovation and was widely reported internationally. Afterward he bad telephoned Tanya tin thank her. That was when they had started seeing each other. The thought of Tanya's first message was a reminder of the note she had sent this evening. "I appreciate that tip about the snow committee report, though I'm curious how you managed to see it before I have.»
«No mystery. It was typed in the Trans America office. I saw our Captain Demerest checking it, and chortling.»
« Vernon showed it to you?"
"No, but he had it spread out, and I'm adept to reading upside down. Which reminds me, you didn't answer my question: Why does your brother-in-law dislike you?'; Mel grimaced. "I guess he knows I'm not overly keen on him.»
«If you wanted to," Tanya said, "you could tell him now. There's the great man himself." She nodded toward the cashier's desk, and Mel turned his head. Captain Vernon Dernerest of Trans America was counting out change as he paid a bill. A tall, broadshouldered, striking figure, he towered above others around him. He was dressed informally in a Harris tweed jacket and impeccably creased slacks, yet managed to convey an impression of authority-like a Regular Army General, Mel thought, temporarily in civilian clothes. Demerest's strong, aristocratic features were unsmiling as he addressed a four-striper Trans America captain-in uniform-who was with him. It appeared that Demerest was giving instructions; the other nodded. Captain Dernerest glanced briefly around the coffee shop and, observing Mel and Tanya, gave a curt, cool nod. Then, checking his watch, and with a final word to the other captain, he strode out. "He appeared in a hurry," Tanya said. "Though wherever fie's going, it won't be for long. Captain D. is taking Flight Two to Rome tonight." Mel smiled. "The Golden Argosy? «
«No less. I see, sir, you read our advertising.»
«It's hard not to." Mel was aware, as were millions of others who admired the four-color double-page spreads in Life, Look, the Post, and other national magazines, that Trans America Fight Two-The Golden Argosy –was the airline's crack, prestige flight. He also knew that only the line's most senior captains ever commanded it. "It seems to be agreed," Mel said, "that Vernon is one of the finest pilots extant.»
«Oh yes, indeed. Extant and arrogant." Tanya hesitated, then confided, "If you're in a mood for gossip, you aren't alone in not caring for your brother-in-law. I heard one of our mechanics say not long ago, he was ;orry there weren't propellers any more because he'd always hoped Captain Dernerest would walk into one." Mel said sharply, "That's a pretty savage thought.»
«I agree. Personally, I prefer what Mr. Youngquist, our president, is supposed to have said. I understand his instructions about Captain Demerest are: 'Keep that bumptious bastard out of my hair, but book me on his flights.' " Mel chuckled. Knowing both men, he felt sure the sally was true. He should not have let himself be drawn into a discussion about Vernon Demerest, he realized, but news of the adverse snow report and the nuisance effect it would have, still rankled. He wondered idly where his brother-in-law was going at the moment, and ff it involved one of his amorous adventures, of which –reportedly-there were a good many. Looking toward the central lobby, Mel saw that Captain Demerest had already been swallowed up in the crowds outside. Across the table, Tanya smoothed her skirt with a swift stroking gesture which Mel had noticed before and liked. It was a feminine habit and a reminder that few women looked as good in uniform, which often seemed to have a de-sexing effect, but with Tanya worked the opposite way. Some airlines, Mel knew, let their senior passenger agents out of uniform, but Trans America liked the authority which its jaunty blue and gold commanded. Two gold rings edged with white, on Tanya's cuffs, pro– claimed her Job and seniority. As if surmising his thoughts, she volunteered, "I may be out of uniform soon.»
«Why? 11 "Our District Transportation Manager is being transferred to New York . The Assistant D.T.M. is moving up, and I've applied for his job." He regarded her with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. "I believe you'll get it. And that won't be the end, either." Her eyebrows went up. "You think I might make vice-president?"
"I believe you could. That is, if it's the kind of thing you want. 1-o be the lady executive; all that." Tanya said softly, "I'm not sure if it's what I want, or not." The waitress brought their order. When they were alone again, Tanya said, "Sometimes us working girls don't get a lot of choice. If you're not satisfied to stay in the job you have through pension time-and lots of us aren't-the only way out is up.»
«You're excluding marriage?" She selected a piece of cinnamon toast. "I'm not excluding it. But it didn't work for me once, and it may not again. Besides which, there aren't many takers-eligible ones-for used bride with baby.»
«You might find an exception.»
«I might win the Irish Sweep. Speaking from experience, Met dear, I can tell you that men like their women unencumbered. Ask my ex-husband. If you can find him, that is; I never could.»
«He left you after your baby was born? «
«Goodness, no! That way Roy would have had six months of responsibility. I think it was on a Thursday I told him I was pregnant; I couldn't have kept it to myself much longer. On Friday when I came home from work, Roy 's clothes were gone. So was Roy.»
«You haven't seen him since?" She shook her head. "In the end, it made the divorce much simpler-desertion; no complications like another woman. I have to be fair, though. Roy wasn't all bad. He didn't empty our joint checking account, though he could have. I must admit I've sometimes wondered if it was kindness, or if he just forgot. Anyway, I had all that eighty dollars to myself." Mel said, "You've never mentioned that before.»
«Should I have? «
«For sympathy, maybe." She shook her head. "If you understood me better, you'd know the reason I'm telling you now is because I don't need sympathy. Everything has worked out fine." Tanya smiled. "I may even get to be an airline vice– president. You just said so." At an adjoining table, a woman said loudly, "Geez! Lookit the time!" Instinctively, Mel did. It was three quarters of an hour since he had left Danny Farrow at the Snow Control Desk. Getting up from the table, he told Tanya, "Don't go away. I have to make a call." There was a telephone at the cashier's counter, and Met dialed one of the Snow Desk unlisted numbers. Danny Farrow's voice said, "Hold it," then, a few moments later, returned on the line. "I was going to call you," Danny said. "I just had a report on that stuck 707 of A6reo-Mexican.»
«Go ahead.»
«You knew Mexican had asked TWA for help? «
«Yes. 11 "Well, they've got trucks, cranes, God knows what out there now. The runway and taxiway are blocked off completely, but they stiff haven't shifted the damn airplane. The latest word is that TWA has sent for Joe Patroni." Met acknowledged, "I'm glad to hear it, though I wish they'd done it sooner." Joe Patroni was airport maintenance chief for TWA, and a born trouble-shooter. He was also a down-toearth, dynamic character and a close crony of Mel's. "Apparently they tried to get Patroni right away," Danny said– "But he was at home and the people here had trouble reaching him. Seems there's a lot of phone lines down from the storm.»
«But he knows now. You're sure of that? «
«TWA's sure. They say he's on his way." Mel calculated. He knew that Joe Patroni lived at Glen Ellyn , some twenty-five miles from the airport, and even with ideal driving conditions the journey took forty minutes. Tonight, with snowbound roads and crawling traffic, the airline maintenance chief would be lucky to make it in twice that time. "If anyone can get that airplane moved tonight," Mel conceded, "it'll be Joe. But meanwhile I don't want anybody sitting on his hands until he gets here. Make it clear to everyone that we need runway three zero usable,

and urgently." As well as the operational need, he remembered unhappily that flights must still be taking off over Meadowood. He wondered if the community meeting, which the tower chief had told him about, was yet in session. "I've been telling 'em," Danny confirmed. "I'll do it some more. Oh, a bit of good news-we found that United food truck.»
«The driver okay? «
«He was unconscious under the snow. Motor still running, and there was carbon monoxide, the way we figured. But they got an inhalator on him, and he'll be all right.»
«Good! I'm going out on the field now to do some checking for myself. I'll radio you from there.»
«Wrap up well," Danny said. "I hear it's a lousy night." Tanya was still at the table when Mel returned, though preparing to go. "Hold on," he said, "I'm coming, too." She motioned to his untouched sandwich. "How about dinner? If that's what it was.»
«This will do for now." He bolted a mouthful, washed it down hastily with coffee, and picked up his topcoat. "Anyway, I'm having dinner downtown." As Mel paid their check, two Trans America ticket agents entered the coffee shop. One was the supervising agent whom Mel had spoken to earlier. Observing Tanya, he came across. "Excuse me, Mr. Bakersfeld … Mrs. Livingston, the D.T.M.'s looking for you. He has another problem." Mel pocketed his change from the cashier. "Let me guess. Somebody else threw a timetable.»
«No, sir." The agent grinned. "I reckon if there's another thrown thiff evening it'll be by me. This one's a stowaway-on Flight 80 from Los Angeles.»
«Is that all?" Tanya appeared surprised. Aerial stowaways-though all airlines had them-were seldom a cause of great concern. "The way I hear it," the agent said, "this one's a dilly. There's been a radio message from the captain, and a security guard has gone to the gate to meet the flight. Anyway, Mrs. Livingston , whatever the trouble is, they're calling for you." With a friendly nod, he went off to rejoin his companion. Mel walked with Tanya from the coffee shop into the central lobby. They stopped at the elevator which would take Mel to the basement garage where his car was parked. "Drive carefully out there," she cautioned. "Don't get in the way of any airplanes.»
«If I do, I'm sure you'll hear about it." He shrugged into the heavy topcoat. "Your stowaway sounds interesting. I'll try to drop by before I leave, to find out what it's all about." He hesitated, then added, "It'll give me a reason to see you again tonight." They were close together. As one, each reached out and their hands touched. Tanya said softly, "Who needs a reason?" In the elevator, going down, he could still feel the warm smoothness of her flesh, and hear her voice. 4
Joe Patroni-as Mel Bakersfeld had learned-was on his way to the airport from his home at Glen Ellyn . The cocky, stocky Italian-American, who was airport maintenance chief for TWA, had left his suburban, ranch-style bungalow by automobile some twenty minutes earlier. The going was exceedingly slow, as Mel had guessed it would be. At the moment, Joe Patroni's Buick Wildcat was halted in a traffic tie-up. Behind and ahead, as far as visibility extended, were other vehicles, also stopped. While waiting, his actions illuminated by the taillights of the car in front, Patroni lit a fresh cigar.
Legends had grown up around Joe Patroni; some professional, others personal. He had begun his working life as a grease monkey in a garage. Soon after, he won the garage from his employer in a dice game, so that at the end of the game they reversed roles. As a result, yotin– Joe became heir to various bad debts, including one which made him owner of an ancient, decrepit Waco biplanc. With a mixture of resourcefulness and sheer mechanical ability, he repaired the airplane, then flew it successfully– without benefit of flying lessons, which he could not afford. The airplane and its mechanical functioning absorbed Joe Patroni completely-so much so, that he enticed his former employer into another dice game and allowed him to win the garage back. Joe thereupon quit the garage and took a job as an airline mechanic. He studied at night school, became a lead mechanic, then a foreman with a reputation as a top-notch troubleshooter. His crew could change an engine faster than an airplane manufacturer said it could be done; and with absolute reliability. After a while, whenever there was pressure, or a difficult repair job, the word went out: get Joe Patroni. A contributing reason for his success was that he never wasted time on diplomacy. Instead, he went directly to the point, both with people and airplanes. He also had a total disregard for rank, and was equally forthright with everyone, including the airline's senior executives, On one occasion, still talked about when airline men reminisced, Joe Patroni walked off his job and, without word to anyone, or prior consultation, rode an airplane to New York . He carried a package with him. On arrival, he went by bus and subway to the airline's Olympian headquarters in midtown Manhattan where, without announcement or preamble, he strode into the president's office. Opening the package, he deposited an ofly, disassembled carburetor on the immaculate presidential desk. The president, who had never heard of Joe Patroni, and whom no one ever got to see without prior appointment, was apoplectic until Joe told him, "If you want to lose some airplanes in fli ght, throw me out of here. If you don't, sit down and listen." The president sat down-while Joe Patroni lighted a cigar-and listened. Afterward, he called in his engineering vice-president who, later still, ordered a mechanical modification affecting carburetor icing in flight, which Patroni had been urging-unsuccessfully at lower level-for months. Later, Patroni received official commendation, and the incident became one more to add to an already growing fund of Patroni stories. Soon after, Joe was promoted to senior supervisor, and a few years later was given the important post of maintenance chief at Lincoln International. On a personal level, another report said that Joe Patroni made love to his wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink. This was true. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone mes– sa,~e came from the airport about the mired A6reo-Mexican jet which TWA had been asked to help extricate. The same rumor continued: Patroni made love the same way he did everything else-with a long, thin cigar stuck jauntily in the side of his mouth. This was untrue, at least nowadays. Marie, having coped with several pillow fires during their early years of marriagedrawing on her training as a TWA air hostess to extinguish them-had emphatically forbidden any more cigars in hed. Joe complied with the edict because he loved his wife. He had reason to. When he married her, she was probably the most popular and beautiful hostess in the entire airline system, and twelve years and three children later she could still hold her own with most successors. There were some who wondered aloud why Marie-who had been pursued ardently by captains and first officers-had ever chosen Joe Patroni at all. But Joe, even as a young maintenance foreman, which he was when they met, had a way with him, and had kept Marie satisfied-in all important ways-ever since. Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never

panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation, deciding what priority the emergency rated, and whether or not he should complete other tasks before coping with it. In the case of the mired 707, instinct told him it was a moderate– to-acute crisis, which meant there was time to finish what he was doing, or have dinner, but not both. Accordingly, he abandoned dinner. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and threw sandwiches together for Joe to eat during his twenty-five-mfle drive to the airport. He nibbled on a sandwich now. Being recalled to the airport after performing a full day's work was not a new experience, but tonight the weather was worse than any other occasion he remembered. Accumulated effects of the three-day storm were everywhere, making driving exacting and hazardous. Huge snowpiles lined the streets and, in the darkness, more snow was falling. Both on and off freeways, traffic was moving at a crawl, or not at all. Even with mudsnow tires, which Patroni's Buick Wildcat had, traction was poor. Windshield wipers and defrosters were barely coping with gusting snow outside and steam within, while headlight beams iLluminated only short distances ahead. Stalled vehicles, some abandoned by their drivers, turned roads into obstacle courses. It was obvious that only those with good reason would be out on such a night. Patroni checked his watch. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead had been stationary for several minutes. Farther ahead stUl, he could make out others, also stopped, and to his right was another halted lane of traffic. Moreover, for some time, no vehicles had come from the opposite direction, so obviously something had happened to obstruct all four lanes. If nothing more occurred in the next five minutes, he decided, he would get out of the car to investigate, though observing the slush, drifts, and still falling snow outside, he hoped he would not have to. There would be plenty of time to become cold and miserable-as he was undoubtedly going to be before the night was out-after arrival at the airport. Meanwhile, he turned up the volume of the car radio, which was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and pulled at his cigar. Five minutes went by. Ahead, Joe Patroni could see people getting out of cars and walking forward, and he prepared to join them. He had brought a fleece-lined parka and pulled it tightly around him, slipping the bood over his head. He reached for the heavy-duty electric lantern which he always carried. As he opened the car door, wind and snow rushed in. He eased out, closing the door quickly. He plodded forward while other car doors slammed and voices called, "What happened?" Someone shouted, "There's been an accident. It's a real mess." As he progressed, flashing lights became visible ahead, and shadows moved and separated, becoming a cluster of people. A new voice said, "I'm telling you they won't clear that lot in a hurry. We'll all be stuck here for hours." A large, darker shadow loomed, partially lighted by sputtering red flares. It proved to be a massive tractor-trailer unit on its side. The cumbersome eighteenwheeled vehicle was spread across the road, blocking all traffic movement. Part of its cargo-apparently cases of canned goods-had spewed out, and already a few opportunists were braving the snow and collecting cases, then hurrying with them to their cars. Two state police patrol cars were at the scene. State troopers were questioning the truck driver, who appeared unhurt. "All I did was touch the goddam brakes," the driver protested loudly. "Then she jackknifed, and rolled over like a whore in heat." One of the policemen wrote in his notebook, and a woman murmured to a man beside her, "Do you think he's putting, that last bit down?" Another woman shouted, "Lotta good that'll do." Her voice was shrill against the wind. "Whyn't you cops get this thing moved?" One of the state troopers walked across. Most of his uniform coat was already snow-covered. "If you'll give us a hand to lift, madam, we'd be glad to oblige."
A few people tittered, and the woman muttered, "Smart ass cops." A tow truck, amber roof-beacon flashing, approached, moving slowly, on the opposite side of the obstruction. The driver was using the now unoccupied lanes on what would normally be the wrong side of the road. He stopped and got out, shaking his head doubtfully as be saw the size and position of the tractortrailer. Joe Patroni shoved forward. He puffed on his cigar, which glowed redly in the wind, and prodded the state trooper sharply on the shoulder. "Listen, son, you'll never move that ria with one tow truck. It'll be like hitching a torntit to a brick." The policeman turned. "Whatever it's like, mister, there's spilled gasoline around here. You'd better get that cigar out." Patroni ignored the instruction, as he ignored almost all smoking regulations. He waved the cigar toward the over-turned tractor-trailer. "What's more, son, you'd be wasting everybody's time, including mine and yours, trying to get that hunk of junk right side up tonight. You'll have to drag it clear so traffic can move, and to do that you need two more tow trucks-one on this side to push, two over there to pull." He began moving around, using his electric lantern to inspect the big articulated vehicle from various angles. As always, when considering a problem, he was totally absorbed. He waved the cigar once more. "The two trucks together'll hitch on to three points. They'll pull the cab first, and faster. That'll overcome the jackknifing. The other truck "Hold it," the state trooper said. He called across to one of the other officers. "Hank, there's a guy here sounds like he knows what he's talking about." Ten minutes later, working with the police officers, Joe Patroni had virtually taken charge. Two additional tow trucks, as he had suggested, were being summoned by radio. While awaiting their arrival, the driver of the first tow truck was attaching chains, under Patroni's direction, to the axles of the capsized tractor-trailer. The situation had already assumed a proficient, get-on-withit pattem-a trademark of any proceeding in which the energetic TWA maintenance chief became involved. Patroni himself had remembered several times, with concern, his reason for being out at all tonight, and the fact that by now he was long overdue at the airport. But helping to clear the blocked highway, he calculated, was the fastest means of getting there. Obviously, his own car and others could not move forward until the wrecked tractor-trailer had been dragged clear from the center of the road. To go back and try an alternate route was equally impossible because traffic behind was backed up, with continuous lines of vehicles extending –so the police assured him-for miles to the rear. He went back to his car to use the radio telephone he had installed at his employers' suggestion, and for which they picked up the monthly bills. He called the airline's maintenance department at the airport to report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld's message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and usable. Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that the most important thing was to be on the airfield himself as speedily as possible. When be left the Buick for the second time, snow was still fallina heavily. Dodging drifts which had formed around the line of waiting cars, he returned to the road block at a jog trot and was relieved to see that the first of the two extra tow trucks had arrived. 5
The elevator, which Mel Bakersfeld had taken after leaving Tanya, deposited him in the terminal basement. His official airport car-mustard yellow, and radioequipped-was in a privileged parking stall close by.
Mel drove out, meeting the storm where the building exit joined an aircraft parking ramp outside. As he left the shelter of the terminal, wind and whirling snow slammed savagely against the car's windshield. The wiper blades slapped swiftly back and forth, though barely maintaining sufficient clear space for forward vision. Through a fractionally opened window, a blast of icy air and snow rushed in. Mel closed the window hastily. The transition from the terminal's warm snugness to the harshness of the night outside was startling. Immediately ahead were airplanes parked at gate positions on the ramp. Through breaks in the snow, as the wind whipped and eddied around concourse buildings, Mel could see into the lighted interiors of several aircraft, which had passengers already seated. Obviously, several flights were ready to leave. These would be awaiting word from the tower to start engines, their continued delay a result of the blockage of runway three zero. Farther out on the airfield and runways, he could make out blur-red shapes and navigation lights of other airplanes-recent arrivals, with engines running. These were in a holding area, which pilots called the penalty box, and would move in as gate positions became vacant. Undoubtedly, the same thing was happening in the other seven aircraft concourses grouped around the terminal. The two-way radio in Mel's car, tuned to ground control frequency, crackled alive. "Ground Control to Eastern seventeen," a controller intoned, "you are cleared to runway two five. Change frequency now for your air-ways clearance." A burst of static. "Eastern seventeen. Roger." A stronger voice rasped irritably. "Ground control from Pan Am fifty-four on outer taxiway to two five. There's a private Cessna in front-a twin-engine tortoise. I'm standinQ on my brakes to keep behind.»
«Pan Arn fifty-four, stand by." The briefest pause, then the controller's voice aqain: "Cessna seven three metro froni ~yoiind control. Enter the next right intersect;f)n. ~-o',!. i ld lei Pan American pass voii.– Unexpectedly, a pleasant woman's voice responded. "Ground control from Cessna seven three tnetro. I'm turning now. Go ahead, Pan Am, you great big bully." A chuckle, then, "Thanks, honey. You can fix your lipstick while you wait." The controller's voice rebuked. "Tower to all aircraft. Confine your messages to official business." The controller was edgy, Mel could tell, despite the routine, studied calmness. But who wouldn't be tonight, with conditions and traffic the way they were? He thought uneasily again about his brother, Keith, involved with the unrelenting pressure of west arrival control. The talk between tower and aircraft was continuous, with no gaps between transmissions. When one exchange ended, Mel snapped his own mike button down. "Ground control from mobile one. I'm at gate sixty-five, proceeding to runway three zero, site of the stuck 707." He listened while the controller gave taxing instructions to two other flights which had just landed. Then: "Tower to mobile one. Roger, follow the Air Canada DC-9 pulling out of the gate ahead of you. Hold short of runway two one." Mel acknowledged. He could see the Air Canada flight, at this moment easing out from a terminal gate, its high graceful tail an angular silhouette. While still in the ramp area, he drove out toward the airfield carefully, watching for ramp lice-as airport men called the proliferation of vehicles which surrounded airplanes on the ground. As well as the usual ones, tronight there were several cherry pickers-trucks with high, maneuverable platforms at the end of steel, articulated arms. On the platforms, service crews were reaching out to clear snow from aircraft wings, and spraying glycol to retard ice formation. The men themselves were snow-covered in their exposed position. Mel braked hastily, avoiding a speeding honey wagon, on its way from the ramp area to disgorge its malodorous four-hundred gallon load of contents pumped out from aircraft toilets. The load would eject into a shredding machine in a special building which other air-port employees avoided, and then be pumped

to city sewers. Most times the procedure worked efficiently, except when passengers reported losses of items-dentures, purses, wallets, even shoes-dropped accidentally in aircraft toilets. It happened once or twice a day. Then loads had to be sifted, while everyone hoped the missing item could be located quickly. Even without incidents, Mel realized, this would be a busy night for sanitary crews. Airport managements knew from experience that demands on toilet facilities, on the ground and in the air, increased as weather worsened. Mel wondered how many people were aware that airport sanitary supervisors received hourly weather forecasts and made their plans-for extra cleaning and increased supplies-accordingly. The Air Canada jet he was to follow had cleared the terminal and was increasing taxi speed. Mel accelerated to keep up. It was reassuring-with windshield wipers barely coping with the snow-to have the DC-9's tail– light as a reference point ahead. Through the rear mirror he could make out the shape of another, larger jet now following. On radio, the ground controller cautioned, "Air France four-o-four, there is an airport ground vehicle between you and Air Canada ." It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three zero was blocked by the A6reoMexican 707. Before then, Mel had separated from the stream of taxiing aircraft which were destined for takeoff on the two other active runways. He stopped the car and got out. In the dark and loneliness out here, the storm seemed even more wintry and violent than nearer the terminal. The wind howled across the deserted runway. If wolves appeared tonight, Mel thought, it would not be surprising. A shadowy figure hailed him. "Is that Mr. Patroni? «
«No, it isn't." Mel found that he, too, bad to shout to make himself heard above the wind. "But Joe Patroni's on the wav." The otf,(-r man came closer. He was huddled into a parka, his face blue with cold. "When he gets here, we'll be glad to see him. Though I'm damned if I know what Patroni'll do. We've tried about everything to get this bastard out." He gestured to the airplane looming, shadowy, behind them. "She's stuck, but good." Mel identified himself, then asked, "Who are you? «
«Ingram, sir. A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I bad some other job." As the two men talked, they moved nearer to the stalled Boeing 707, instinctively seeking shelter under the wings and fuselage, high above them. Under the big jet's belly, a red hazard light winked rhythmically, In its reflection Mel could see the mud beneath snow in which the aircraft's wheels were deeply mired. On the runway and adjoining taxiway, clustered like anxious relatives, were a profusion of trucks and service vehicles, including a fuel tanker, baggage tenders, a post office van, two crew buses, and a roaring,power cart. Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. "We need this runway urgently-tonight. What have you done so far?" In the past two hours, Ingram reported, old-fashioned boarding ramps had been trundled from the terminal, manhandled to the aircraft, and passengers guided down them. It bad been a slow, tricky job because steps were icing as fast as they were cleared. An elderly woman had been carried down by two mechanics. Babies were passed from hand to hand in blankets. Now, all passengers were gone-in buses, along with the stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer re– mained. "Since the passengers left-have you tried to get the airplane moving?" The foreman nodded affirmatively. "Had the engines running twice. The captain's put on all the power he dare. But she won't come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper.»
«What's happening now? «
«We're taking off more weight, hoping that'll. help." Most of the fuel, Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers-a heavy load since tanks were full for takeoff. Bag age and freight compartments in the belly had been ,g emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.
Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew exactly where their mailbavs were and, if delays occurred, postal employees quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most, it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate route. Mel asked, "Have you all the help you need? «
«Yes. sir-for all we can do now. I've got most of our crew from A6reo-Mexican here-a dozen men. Right now, half of 'em are thawing out in one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas are." Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. "But if you ask me, it's going to be a long job. and we'll need heavy cranes, jacks, and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we'd have to wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow." Mel said sharply, "It can't take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This runway has to be cleared . . ." He stopped abruptly, shivering with a suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie. Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather-the fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet, strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted to the cold. From the opposite side of the airfield, above the wind, he could hear the thunder of jet m(jines. They rose to a crescendo, then diminished as a flight took off. Another followed, and another. Over there, all was well. And here? It was true, was-n't it?-for the briefest instant he had had a premonition. A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble brewing. He should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in prag– matic manaQement. Except that once, long aqo, he had had the selfsame feeling-a conviction of events accumulating, and progressing to some disastrous, unenvis– aged end. Met remembered the end, which he had been unable to avert … entirely. He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now, its outline blurring. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the inconvenience of takeoffs over Meadowood, the situation was harmless. There had been a mishap, with no injuries, no apparent damage. Not[iing more. "Let's go to my car," he told the A6reo-Mexican foreman. "We'll get on the radio and find out what's happening." On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting impatiently downtown. Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was comfortingly warm. Ingram grunted appreciatively. He loosened his coat and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air. Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance. "Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I'm at the blocked intersection of three zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When coming? Over." Danny Farrow's voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash. "Snow Desk to mobile one. Wilco. And, Mel, your wife called." Mel pressed the mike button. "Did she leave a number? «
«Affirmative.»
«Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I'm sorry, I'll be a little late. But check on Patroni first.»
«Understood. Stand by." The radio went silent. Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them to Ingram. "Thanks." They lit up, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth. Ingram nodded toward the lighted cockpit of the A6reo-Mexican jet. "Up there, that son-of-a-bitch of a

captain is probably crying into his sombrero. Next time, he'll watch blue taxi lights like they was altar candles." Mel asked, "Are your ground crews Mexicans or American? «
«We're all American. Only meatheads like us would work in this lousy weather. Know where that flight was going?" Mel shook his head. " Acapulco . Before this happened, I'd have given up six months' screwing to be on it." The foreman chuckled. "Can you imagine, though-getting aboard, and your ass all settled, then having to get off in th.is. You should have heard the passengers cursing, especially the women. I learned some new words tonight." The radio came alive again. "Snow Desk to mobile one," Danny Farrow said. "I talked with TWA about Joe Patroni. They've heard from him, but he's held up in traffic. He'll be another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me so far? «
«We read," Mel said. "Let's have the message.»
«Patroni warns not to get the airplane deeper in the mud than it is already. Says it can happen easily. So, unless the A6reo-Mexican crowd are real sure of what they're doing, they should hold off any more tries until Joe gets there." Mel glanced sideways at Ingram. "How does the A6reo-Mexican crowd feel about that?" The foreman nodded. "Patroni can have all the tries he wants. We'll wait." Danny Farrow said, "Did you get that? Is it clear?" Mel thumbed the mike button. "It's clear.»
«Okay. There's more. TWA is rounding up some extra ground crew to help. And, Mel, your wife phoned again. I gave her your message." Mel sensed Danny hesitating, aware that others whose radios were on the airport maintenance frequency were listening, too. Mel said, "She wasn't happy? «
«I guess not." There was a second's silence. "You'd better get to a phone when you can." It was a safe bet, Mel thought, that Cindy had been more than usually snippy with Danny, but, loyally, he wasn't saying so. As for the A6reo-Mexican 707, obviously there was nothing more to be done until Joe Patroni arrived. Patroni's advice about not getting the aircraft more deeply mired made good sense. Ingram was pulling on heavy mitts and refastening his coat. "Thanks for the warm-up." He went out, into the wind and snow, slamming the door quickly. A few moments later, Mel could see him plodding through deep drifts toward the assembled vehicles on the taxiway. On radio, the Snow Desk was speaking to Maintenance Snow Center . Mel waited until the exchange finished, then held the transmit button down. "This is mobile one, Danny. I'm going to the Conga Line." He eased the car forward, picking his way carefully in the blowing snow and darkness, with only widely spaced runway lights to guide him. The Conga Line, both spearhead and prime mover of the airport snow-fighting system, was-at the moment –on runway one seven, left. In a few minutes, Mel thought grin-fly, he would find out for himself if there was truth, or merely malice, in the critical report of Captain Demerest's Airlines Snow Committee. 6
The subject of Mel's thoughts-Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America –was, at the moment, some three miles from the airport. He was driving his Mercedes 230 SL Roadster and, compared with the journey he had made to the airport earlier from home, was having little trouble negotiating local streets, which had been recently plowed. Snow was still falling heavily, abetted by a strong wind, but the fresh covering on the

ground was not yet deep enough to make conditions difficult. Demerest's destination was a group of three-story apartment blocks, close to the airport, known colloquially to [lying crews as Stewardess Row. It was here that many of the stewardesses based at Lincoln International-from all airlines-maintained apartments. Each apartment was usually shared by two or three girls, and the initiated also had a name for the individual m6nages. They were known as stewardess nests. The nests were often the scene of lively, off-duty parties, and sometimes headquarters for the amorous affairs which occurred, with predictable regularity, between stewardesses and male flying crews. Taken as a whole, the stewardess nests were neither more nor less freewheeling than other apartments occupied by single girls elsewhere. The difference was that most of what transpired in the way of swinging, amoral activities, involved airline personnel. There was good reason for this. Both the stewardesses and male crew members whom they met-captains, and first and second officers-were, without ex– ception, high-caliber people. All had reached their jobs, which many others coveted, through a tough, exacting process of elimination in which those less talented were totally eclipsed. The comparative few who remained were the brightest and best. The result was a broth of sharp, enlightened personalities with a zest for life and the perceptiveness to appreciate one another. Vernon Demerest, in his time, had appreciated many stewardesses, as they had appreciated him. He had, in fact, had a succession of affairs with beautiful and intelligent young women whom a monarch or a male movie idol might well have desired without attaining. The stewardesses whom Dernerest and fellow pilots knew, and regularly made love to, were neither whores nor easy lays. They were, however, alive, responsive, and sexually endowed girls, who valued quality, and took it when so obviously and conveniently close to hand. One who had taken it-so to speak-from Vernon Demerest, and seemed inclined to continue to, was a vivacious, attractive, English-bom brunette, Gwen Meighen. She was a farmer's daughter who had left home to come to the United States ten years earlier at the age of eighteen. Before joining Trans America she was briefly a fashion model in Chicago . Perhaps because of her varied background, she combined an uninhibited sexuality in bed with elegance and style when out of it. It was to Gwen Meighen's apartment that Vernon Demerest was headed now. Later tonight, the two of them would leave for Rome on Trans America Flight Two. On the flight deck, Captain Demerest would command. In the passenger cabins, aft, Gwen Meighen would be senior stewardess. At the Rome end of the journey, there would be a three-day layover for the crew, while another crew-already in Italy for its own layover-would fly the airplane back to Lincoln International. The word "layover" had long ago been adopted officially by airlines and was used deadpan. Possibly, whoever coined the term had a sense of humor; in any case, flying crews frequently gave it a practical application as well as its official one. Demerest and Gwen Meighen were planning a personal definition now. On arrival in Rome , they would leave immediately for Naples for a forty-eight-hour "layover" together. It was a halcyon, idyllic prospect, and Vernon Dernerest smiled appreciatively at the thought of it. He was nearing Stewardess Row, and as be reminded himself of how well other things had gone this evening, his smile broadened. He had arrived at the airport early, after leaving Sarah, his wife, who-placidly as usual-had wished him a pleasant trip. In an earlier age, Sarah might have busied herself with needlepoint or knitting during her liege's absence. As it was, he knew that as soon as he had left, she would become immersed in her curling club, bridge, and amateur oil painting which were the mainstays of her life. Sarah Demerest's placidity, and her dullness which naturally went with it, were qualities her husband had come to accept and, in a perverse way, valued. Between

flying trips and affairs with more interesting women, he thought of his sojourns at home, and sometimes spoke of them to intimates, as "going into the hangar for a stand down." His marriage had another 6onvenience. While it existed, the women he made love to could become as emotional and demanding as they liked, but he could never be expected to meet the ultimate demand of matrimony. In this way, he had a perpetual protection against his own hasty action in the beat of passion. As to sexual intimacy with Sarah, he still obliged her occasionally, as one would play "throw the ball" with an old dog. Sarah responded dutifully, with conventional body heavings and quickened breath, though he suspected both were more from rote than passion, and that if they quit copulation entirely she would not be overly concerned. He was also sure that Sarah suspected his philandering, if not in fact, then at least by instinct. But, characteristically, she would prefer not to know, an arrangement in which Vernon Dernerest was happy to cooperate. Another thinj which bad pleased him this evening was the Airlines Snow Committee report in which he had delivered a verbal kick in the crotch, aimed at his stuffed-shirt brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld. The critical report had been solely Demerest's idea. The other two airline representatives on the committee had at first taken the view that the airport management was doing its best under exceptional conditions. Captain Dernerest argued otherwise. The others had finally gone along with him and agreed that Dernerest would personally write the report, which he made as scathing as he could. He had not bothered about accuracy or otherwise of the indictment; after all, with so much snow around, who could be sure of anything? He had, however, made certain that the widely circulated report would cause a maximum of embarrassment and irritation to Mel Bakersfeld. Copies were now being Xeroxed and would be sent to regional vice-presidents of all airlines, as well as airline headquarters, in New York and elsewhere. Knowing how everyone enjoyed finding a scapegoat for operational delays, Captain Dernerest was confident that telephones and teletypes would be busy after its receipt. A revenge, Vernon Dernerest thought pleasurablysmall but satisfying-had been exacted. Now, perhaps, his limping, quarter-cripple brother-in-law would think twice before antagonizing Captain Demerest and the Air Line Pilots Association, as Mel Bakersfeld had presumed to do-in public-two weeks ago. Captain Demerest swung the Mercedes into an apartment building parking lot. He stopped the car smoothly and got out. He was a little early, he noticed-a quarter of an hour before the time he had said he would collect Gwen and drive her to the airport. He decided to go up, anyway. As he entered the building, using the passkey Gwen had given him, he hummed softly to himself, then smiled, realizing the tune was 0 Sole Mio. Well, why not? It was appropriate. Naples . . . a warm night instead of snow, the view above the bay in starlight, soft music from mandolins, Chianti with dinner, and Gwen Meighen beside him …. all were less than twenty-four hours away. Yes, indeed!-O Sole Mio. He continued humming it. In the elevator going up, he remembered another good thing. The flight to Rome would be an easy one. Tonight, though Captain Demerest was in command of Flight Two-The Golden Argosy-he would do little of the work which the flight entailed. The reason was that he was flying as a line check captain– Another four-striper captain-Anson Harris, almost as senior as Demerest himself-had been assigned to the flight and would occupy the command pilot's left seat. Dernerest would use the right seat-normally the first officer's position-from where he would observe and report on Captain Harris's performance. The check flight arrangement had come up because Captain Harris had elected to transfer from Trans America domestic operations to international. However, before flying as a futl-fledged international captain, he was required to make two flights over an overseas route

with a regular line captain who also held instructor's qualifications. Vernon Dernerest did. After Captain Harris's two flights, of which tonight's would be the second, he would be given a final check by a senior supervisory captain before being accepted for international command. Such checks-as well as regular six-monthly check flights, which all pilots of all airlines were required to undergo-entailed an aerial scrutiny of ability and flying habits. The checks took place on ordinary scheduled flights, and the only indication a passenger might have that one was in progress would be the presence of two four-striper captains on the flight deck up front. Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both regular and special, were usually serious, exacting sessions. The pilots wanted them that way. Too much was at stake-public safety and high professional standards-for any mutual back-scratching, or for weaknesses to be overlooked. A captain being checked was aware that he must measure up to required standards in aH respects. Failure to do so would mean an automatic adverse report which, if serious enough, could lead to an even tougher session with the airline's chief pilot, with the testee's job in jeopardy. Yet, while performance standards were not relaxed, senior captains undergoing flight checks were treated by their colleagues with meticulous courtesy. Except by Vernon Demerest. Dernerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to himself, in precisely the same waylike an errant schoolboy summoned to the headmaster's presence. Moreover, in the headmaster's role, Dernerest was officious, arrogant, condescending, and tough. He made no secret of his conviction that no one else's ability as a pilot was superior to his own. Colleagues who received this brand of treatment raged inwardly, but had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one another that when Demerest's own time came they would give him the meanest, toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with a single consistent result-Vernon Demerest turned in a flawless performance which could not be faulted. This afternoon, characteristically, Dernerest prefaced his check session by telephoning Captain Anson Harris at home. "It'll be a bad night for driving," Dernerest said without preamble. "I like my crew to be punctual, so I suggest you allow plenty of time to get to the airport." Anson Harris, who in twenty-two unblemished years with Trans America had never been late for a single flight, was so outraged, he almost choked. Fortunately, before Harris could get any words out, Captain Demcrest hung up. Still fuming, but to make absolutely sure that Derncrest would not catch him out, Captain Harris had arrived at the airport almost three hours ahead of flight time instead of the usual one hour. Captain Demerest, fresh from his stint with the Airlines Snow Committee, bad encountered Harris in the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop. Demerest was wearing a sports jacket and slacks; he kept a spare uniform in his airport locker and planned to change into it later. Captain Harris, a graying, grizzled veteran whom many younger pilots addressed as "sir," was in Trans America uniform. "Hi, Anson." Vernon Demerest dropped into an adjoining seat at the counter. "I see you took my good advice." Captain Harris's grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly, but all he said was, "Good evening, Vern.»
«We'll start the pre-flight briefing twenty minutes earlier than usual," Demerest said. "I want to check your flight manuals." Thank God, Harris thought, his wife had gone through his manuals only yesterday, inserting the very latest amendments. But he bad better check his mail slot in the dispatch office. This bastard was likely to fault him for not making an amendment published only this afternoon. To give his hands-which were itchingsomething to do, Captain Harris filled and lit his pipe. He was aware of Vernon Demerest looking at him critically.
"You're not wearing a regulation shirt." For a moment, Captain Harris could not believe his colleague was serious. Then, as he realized he was, Harris's face suffused a deep plum red. Regulation shirts were an irritant to Trans America pilots, as they were to pilots of other airlines. Obtainable through company sources, the official shirts cost nine dollars each, and were often ill fitting, their material of dubious quality. Though contrary to regulations, a much better shirt could be purchased independently for several dollars less, with the difference in appearance scarcely noticeable. Most pilots bought the tmofficial shirts and wore them. Vernon Demerest did too. On several occasions Anson Harris had heard Demerest speak disdainfully of the company's shirts and point to the superior quality of his own. Captain Dernerest motioned to a waitress for coffee, then reassured Harris, "It's all right. I won't report on your wearing a non-reg shirt here. As long as you change it before you come on my flight." Hold on! Anson Harris told himself. Dear God in heaven, give me strength not to blow, which is probably what the ornery son-of-a-bitch wants. But why? Why? All right. All right, he decided; indignity or not, he would change his unofficial shirt for a regulation one. He would not give Demerest the satisfaction of having a single miniscule check point on which to fault him. It would be difficult to get a company shirt tonight. He would probably have to borrow one-exchange shirts with some other captain or first officer. When he told them why, they would hardly believe him. He hardly believed it himself. But when Demerest's own check flight came up the next, and all others from this moment on … let him beware. Anson Harris had good friends among the supervisory pilots. Let Demerest be wearing a regulation shirt; let him hew to regulations in every other trifling way … or else. Then Harris thought glumly: The foxy bastard wil I remember; he'll make sure he does. "Hey, Anson!" Dernerest seemed amused. "You've bitten off the end of your pipe." And so he had. Remembering, Vernon Demerest chuckled. Yes, it would be an easy flight tonight-for him. His thoughts returned to the present as the apartment block elevator stopped at the third floor. He stepped into the carpeted corridor and turned to the left familiarly, heading for the apartment which Gwen Meighen shared with a stewardess of United Air Lines. The other girl, Dernerest knew because Gwen had told him, was away on an overnight flight. On the apartment door bell he tapped out their usual signal, his initials in Morse … dit-dit-dit-dah dah-dit-dit . . . then went in, using the same key which opened the door below. Gwen was in the shower. He could hear the water running. When he went to her bedroom door, she called out, " Vernon , is that you?" Even competing with the shower, her voice-with its flawless English accent, which he liked so much– sounded mellow and exciting. He thought: Small wonder Gwen had so much success with passengers. He had seen them appear to melt-the men especial ly-when her natural charm was turned toward them. He called back, "Yes, boney." Her filmy underthings were laid out on the bed-panties, sheer nylons; a transparent bra, flesh colored, with a girdle of the same material; a French silk, hand-embroidered slip. Gwen's uniform might be standard, but beneath it she believed in expensive individuality. His senses quickened; he moved his eyes away reluctantly. "I'm glad you came early," she called again. "I want to have a talk before we leave.»
«Sure, we've time.»
«You can make tea, if you like.»
«Okay.,, She had converted him to the English habit of tea at all times of (lay, though he had scarcely ever drunk tea at all until knowing Gwen. But now he often asked for it at home, a request which puzzled Sarah, particularly when he insisted on it being correctly made-the pot warmed first, as Gwen had taught him, the water still boiling at the instant it touched the tea.
He went to the tiny kitchen, where he knew his way around, and put a kettle of water on the stove. He poured milk into a jug from a carton in the refrigerator, then drank some milk himself before putting the carton back. He would have preferred a Scotch and soda, but, like most pilots, abstained from liquor for twenty-four hours before a flight. Out of habit he checked his watch; it showed a few minutes before 8:00 P.m. At this moment, he realized, the sleek, long-range Boeing 707 jet which he would command on its five-thousand mile flight to Rome , was being readied for him at the airport. He heard the shower stop. In the silence he began humming once again. Happily. 0 Sole Mio. 7
T'he blustering, biting wind across the airfield was as strong as ever, and still driving the heavily falling snow before it. Inside his car, Mel Bakersfeld shivered. He was heading for runway one seven, left, which was being plowed, after leaving runway three zero and the stranded A6reo-Mexican jet. Was the shivering due to the cold outside, Mel wondered, or to memory, which the scent of trouble a few minutes ago, plus the nagging reminder from the old injury of his foot, had triggered? The injury had happened sixteen years ago off the coast of Korea when Mel had been a Navy pilot flying fighter missions from the carrier Essex. Through the previous twelve hours (he remembered clearly, even now) he had had a presentiment of trouble coming. It wasn't fear-like others, he had learned to live with that; rather, a conviction that something fateful, possibly final, was moving inexorably toward him. Next day, in a dogfight with a MIG-15, Mel's Navy F9F-5 had been shot down inio the sea. He managed a controlled ditching, but though unhurt himself, his left foot was trapped by a jammed rudder pedal. With the airplane sinking fast-an F9F-5 had the floating characteristics of a brick-Mel used a survivalkit hunting knife to slash desperately, wildly, at his foot and the pedal. Somehow, underwater, his foot came free. In intense pain, half-drowned, he surfaced. He had spent the next eight hours in the sea before being picked up, unconscious. Later he learned he had severed the ligaments in front of his ankle, so that the foot extended from his leg in an almost straight line. In time, Navy medics repaired the foot, though Mel had never flown-as a pilot-since then. But at intervals the pain still returned, reminding him that long ago, as on other later occasions, his instinct for trouble had been right. He had the same kind of instinct now. Handling his car cautiously, being careful to retain his bearinp in the darkness and restricted visibility, Mel was nearing runway one seven, left. This was the runway which, the tower chief had indicated, Air Traffic Control would seek to use when the wind shifted as was forecast to happen soon. At the moment, on the airfield, two runways were in use: one seven, right, and runway two five. Lincoln International had five runways altogether. Through the past three days and nights they had represented the front line of the battle between the airport and the storm. The longest and widest of the five was three zero, the runway now obstructed by A6reo-Mexican. (With a change of wind and an aircraft approaching from the opposite direction, it could also be runway one two. The figures indicated compass headings of 300 and 120 degrees.) This runway was almost two miles long and as wide as a short city block; an airport joke claimed that one end could not be seen from the other because of the earth's curvature. Each of the other four runways was half a mile or so shorter, and less wide.
Without ceasing, since the storm began, the miles of runways had been plowed, vacuumed, brushed, and sanded. The motorized equipment-several million dollars' worth of roaring diesels-had stopped only minutes at a time, mainly for refueling or relieving crews. It was work which air travelers never saw at close hand because no aircraft used a fresh-cleared runway until the surface had been inspected and declared safe. Standards were exacting. Half an inch of slush or three inches of powdery snow were maximums allowable for jets. More than that would be sucked into engines and endanger operation. It was a pity, Me] Bakersfeld reflected, that runway snow teams were not more on public view. The sight was spectacular and stirring. Even now, in storm and darkness, approaching the massed equipment from the rear, the effect was impressive. Giant columns of snow cascaded to the right in arcs of a hundred and fifty feet. The arcs were framed in vehicle searchlights, and shimmered from the added color of some twenty revolving beacons-one on the roof of each vehicle in the group. Airport men called the group a Conga Line. It had a head, a tail, a body, and an entourage, and it progressed down a runway with the precision of choreography. A convoy leader was the head. He was a senior foreman from airport maintenance and drove an airport car-bright yellow, like all other equipment in the Line. The leader set the Conga Line pace, which was usually fast. He had two radios and remained permanently in touch with the Snow Desk and Air Traffic Control. By a system of lights, he could signal drivers followinggreen for "speed up," amber for "maintain pace," red for "slow down," and flashing red for "stop." He was required to carry in his head a detailed map of the airport, and must know precisely where he was, even on the darkest night, as now. Behind the convoy leader, its driver, like an orchestra's first violinist, was the number one plow-tonight a mammoth Oshkosh with a big main blade ahead, and a wing blade to the side. To the rear of number one plow, and on its right, was number two. The first plow heaved the snow aside; the second accepted the load from the first and, adding more, heaved both lots farther. Then came a Snowbiast, in echelon with the plows, six hundred roaring horsepower strong. A Snowblast cost sixty thousand dollars and was the Cadillac of snow clearance. With mighty blowers it engulfed the snow which both plows piled, and hurled it in a herculean arc beyond the runway's edge. In a second echelon, farther to the right, were two more plows, a second Snowblast. After the plows and Snowblasts came the gradersfive in line abreast, with plow blades down to clear any mounds the front plows missed. The graders towed revolving brushes, each sixteen feet wide and independently diesel powered. The brushes scoured the runway surface like monstrous yard brooms. Next were sanders. Where the eleven vehicles ahead had cleared, three hulking FWD trucks, with hoppers holding fourteen cubic yards apiece, spread sand out evenly. ne sand was special. Elsewhere around the airport, on roadways and areas which the public used, salt was added to the sand as a means of melting ice. But never for aeronautical areas. Salt corroded metal, shortening its life, and airplanes were treated with more respect than cars. Last in the Conga Line itself-"tail-end Charlie"was an assistant foreman in a second car. His job was to insure that the line stayed intact and to chivvy stragglers. He was in radio touch with the convoy leader, often out of sight ahead in snow and darkness. Finally came the entourage-a standby plow, in case one faltered in the Line; a service truck with a detail of mechanics; refueling tankers-diesel and gasoline; and –when summoned by radio at appointed times-a coffee and doughnut wagon. Mel accelerated around the entourage and positioned his car alongside the assistant foreman's. His arrival was noticed. He heard the convoy leader notified by radio, "Mr. Bakersfeld just joined us."
The Line was moving fast-close to forty miles an hour instead of its usual twenty-five. The leader had probably speeded up because of the expected wind shift and the need to have the runway open soon. Switching his radio to ATC ground frequency, Mel heard the convoy leader call the tower, ". . . on one seven, left, approaching intersection with runway two five. Reqtiest clearance over intersection." Runway two five was an active runway, now in use. "Convoy leader from ground control, hold short of the intersection. We have two flights on final approach. You may not, repeat, not, cross runway intersectioia. Acknowledge." The voice from the tower was apologetic. Up there, they understood the difficulty of stopping a rolling Conga Line, and getting it started again. But the approaching flights had undoubtedly made a tricky instru– ment descent and now were close to landing, one behind the other, Only a desperate emergency would justify sending them round again on such a night. Ahead of Mel, red lights were going on, flashing commandingly as the Conga Line slowed and stopped. The assistant foreman, a cheerful young Negro, jumped from his car and came across to Mel's. As he opened the door, the wind swept in, but could only be felt, not heard, above the encompassing roar of idling diesels. The assistant put his mouth against Mel's ear. "Say, Mr. B., how's about joining the Line? One of the boys'll take care of your car." Mel grinned. The pleasure he got, whenever he could spare time, from riding and occasionally handling heavy motorized equipment was well known around the airport. Why not? he reasoned. He had come out to inspect the snow clearance as a result of the adverse report by Vernon Demerest's Airlines Snow Committee. Clearly, the report was unjustified, and everything was going well. But maybe he should watch a few minutes longer from a ringside perch. Nodding agreement, he shouted, "Okay, I'll ride the second Snowblast.»
«Yessir!" The assistant foreman, carrying a hand searchlight and leaning against the wind, preceded Mel past the now stationary lines of sand trucks and brushes. Mel observed that already fresh snow was starting to cover the runway area cleared only moments ago, To the rear, a figure ducked from a service truck and hastened to Mel's car. "Better hurry, Mr. B. It's only a short stop." The young Negro flashed his light at the Snowblast cab, then held it steady, illuminating the way, as Mel clambered up. High above, the Snowblast driver opened the cab door and held it while Mel eased inside. On the way up, his impaired foot pained him sharply, but there was no time to wait. Ahead, the flashing red lights had already changed to green, and presumably the two approaching aircraft had now landed and were past the intersection. The Conga Line must hurry across before the next landing, perhaps only a minute or two away. Glancing to the rear, Mel could see the assistant foreman sprinting back toward his tail-end-Charlic car. The Snowblast was already moving, picking up speed with a deep-throated roar. Its driver glanced sideways as Mel slipped into one of the two soft, padded seats. "Hi, Mr. Bakersfeld.»
«How are you, Will'?" Mel recognized the man, who, when there was no snow emergency, was employed by the airport as a payroll clerk. "I'm pretty good, sir. Tired some." The driver was holding position carefully behind the third and fourth plows, their beacon lights just visible. Already the Snowblast's huge auger blades were engorging snow, cramming it to the blower. Once more, a continuous white stream was arcing outward, clear of the runway. Up here was like the bridge of a ship. The driver held his main control wheel lightly, like a helmsman. A multitude of dials and levers, glowing in the darkness, were arranged for fingertip control. Circular, high-speed windshield wipers-as on a ship-provided ports of clear vision through encrusted snow.
guess everyone's tired," Mel said. "AJI I can tell you is that this can't last forever." He watched the for-ward speed needle climb-from twenty-five to thirty, thirty to thirty-five. Swinog in his seat, Mel surveyed outside. From this position, at the center of the Conga Line, he could see the lights and shapes of the other vehicles. He noted approvingly that the formation was exact. A few years ago, in a storm like this, an airport would have closed completely. Now it didn't, mainly because ground facilities-in this one area-had caught up with progress in the air. But of how many areas of aviation could the same thing be said? Mel reflected ruefully: very few. "Oh, well," the driver said, "it makes a change from working an adding machine, and the longer this keeps up, the more extra pay there'll be when it's over." He touched a lever, tilting the cab forward to inspect the auger blades. With another control he adjusted the blades, then releveled the cab. "I don't have to do this; you know that, Mr. Bakersfeld, I volunteer. But I kinda like it out here. It's sort of He hesitated. "I dunno." Mel suggested, "Elemental? «
«I guess so." The driver laughed. "Maybe I'm snow happy.»
«No, Will, I don't believe you are." Mel swung forward, facing the way the Conga Line was moving. It was elemental here. More to the point, amid the airfields loneliness there was a feeling of closeness to aviation, the real aviation which in its simplest sense was man against the elements. You lost that kind of feeling if you stayed too long in terminals and airline office buildings; there, the extraneous, non-essential things confused you. Maybe all of us in aviation management, Mel thought, should stand at the distant end of a runway once in a while, and feel the wind on Our faces. It could help to separate detail from fundamentals It might even ventilate our brains as well. Sometimes in the past Mel had gone out onto the airfield when he needed to think, to reason quietly and alone. He had not expected to tonight, but found himself doing so now . . wondering, speculating, as he had so often in recent days, about the airport's future and his own. 8
Less than a lustrum ago, the airport was considered among the world's finest and most modern. Delegations inspected it admiringly. Civic politicians were given to pointing with pride and would huff and puff about "air leadership" and "a symbol of the jet age." Nowadays the politicians still huffed and puffed, but with less reason. What most failed to realize was that Lincoln International, like a surprising number of other major airports, was close to becoming a whited sepulcher. Mel Bakersfeld pondered the phrase whited sepulcher while riding in darkness down runway one seven, left. It was an apt definition, he thought. The airport's deficiencies were serious and basic, yet, since they were mostly out of public view, only insiders were aware of them. Travelers and visitors at Lincoln International saw principally the main passenger terminal-a brightly lighted, air-conditioned Taj Mahal. Of gleaming glass and chrome, the terminal was impressively spacious, its thronged concourses adjoining elegant waiting areas. Opulent service facilities ringed the passenger area. Six specialty restaurants ranged from a gourmet dining room, with gold-edged china and matching prices, to a grab-it-and-run hot dog counter. Bars, cozily darkened or stand-up and neon lit, were plentiful as toilets. While waiting for a flight, and without ever leaving the terminal, a visitor could shop, rent a room and bed, and take a steam bath with massage, have his hair cut, suit

pressed, shoes shined, or even die and have his burial arranged by Holy Ghost Memorial Gardens which maintained a sales office on the lower concourse. Judged by its terminal alone, the airport was still spectacular. Where its deficiencies lay were in operating areas, notably runways and taxiways. Few of the eighty thousand passengers who flew in and out each day were aware of how inadequate-and therefore hazardous-the runway system had become. Even a year previously, runways and taxiways were barely sufficient; now, they were dangerously over-taxed. In normally busy periods, on two main runways, a takeoff or landing occurred every thirty seconds. The Meadowood situation, and the consideration the airport showed to community residents, made it necessary, at peak periods, to use an alternative runway which bisected one of the other two. As a result, aircraft took off and landed on converging courses, and there were moments when air traffic controllers held their breath and prayed. Only last week Keith Bakersfeld, Mel's brother, had predicted grimly, "Okay, so we stay on our toes in the tower, and we cope with the hairy ones, and we haven't brought two airplanes together at that intersection yet. But someday there'll be a second's inattention or misjudgment, and one of us will. I hope to God it isn't me because when it happens it'll be the Grand Canyon all over again." The intersection Keith had spoken of was the one which the Conga Line had just passed over. In the cab of the Snowblast, Mel glanced to the rear. The Conga Line was weU clear of the intersection now, and, through a momentary gap in the snow, airplane navigation lights were visible on the other runway, moving swiftly as a flight took off. Then, incredibly, there were more lights only a few yards behind as another flight landed, it seemed at the same instant. The Snowblast driver had turned his head also-. He whistled. "Those two were pretty close." Mel nodded. They had been close, exceptionally so, and for an instant his flesh had prickled with alarm. Obviously, what had happened was that an air traffic controller, instructing the pilots of both airplanes by radio, had cut tolerances exceedingly fine. As usual, the controller's skilled judgment had proven right, though only just. The two flights were safe-one now in the air, the other on the ground. But it was the need for a multiplicity of such hairbreadth judgments which created an unceasing hazard. Mel bad pointed out the hazard frequently to the Board of Airport Commissioners and to members of City Council, who controlled airport financing, As well as immediate construction of more runways and taxi– ways, Mel had urged purchase of additional land around the airport for long term development. There had been plenty of discussion, and sometimes angry argument, as a result. A few Board and Council members saw things the way Mel did, but others took a strongly counter view. It was hard to convince people that a modern jetport, built in the late 1950s, could so quickly have become inadequate to the point of danger. It made no difference that the same was true of other centers-New York, San Francisco, Chicago, and elsewhere; there were certain things which politicians simply did not want to see. Mel thought: maybe Keith was right. Perhaps it would take another big disaster to arouse public awareness, just as the 1956 Grand Canyon disaster had spurred President Eisenhower and the Eighty-fourth Congress to revamp the airways. Yet, ironically, there was seldom any difficulty in getting money for non-operational improvements. A proposal to triple-deck all parking lots had won city approval without dissent. But that was something which the public-including those who had votes-could see and touch. Runways and taxiways were different. A single new runway cost several million dollars and took two years to build, yet few people other than pilots, air traffic controllers, and airport management, ever knew how good or bad a runway system was. But at Lincoln International a showdown was coming soon. It had to. In recent weeks, Mel had sensed the signs, and when it happened the choice would be clear

-between advancement on the ground, matching new achievements in the air, or impotently drifting backward. In aviation, there was never a status quo. There was another factor. As well as the airport's future, Mel's personal future was at stake. Whichever way airport policies veered, so would his own prestige advance or lessen in places where it counted most. Only a short time ago, Mel Bakersfeld had been a national spokesman for ground logistics of aviation, had been touted as the rising young genius in aviation management. Then, abruptly, a single, calamitous event had wrought a change. Now, four years later, the future was no longer clear, and there were doubts and questioning about Mel Bakersfeld, in others' minds as well as in his own. The event which caused the change was the John F. Kennedy assassination. "Here's the end of the runway, Mr. Bakersfeld. You riding back with us, or what?" The voice of the Snowblast driver broke in on Mel's reverie. "Hm?" The man repeated his question. Ahead of them, once more, warning lights were flashing on, the Conga Line showing. Half the width of a runway was cleared at one time. Now, the Line would reverse itself and go back the way it had come, clearing the remaining portion. Allowing for stops and starts, it took forty-five minutes to an hour to plow and sand a single runway. "No," Mel said. "I'll get off here.»

«Right, sir." The driver directed a signal light at the assistant foreman's car which promptly swung out of line. A few moments later, as Mel clambered down, his own car was waiting. From other plows and trucks, crews were descending and hurrying to the coffee wagon. Driving back toward the terminal, Mel radioed the Snow Desk, confirming to Danny Farrow that runway one seven, left, would be usable shortly. Then, switching to ATC ground control, he turned the volume low, the subdued, level voices a background to his thoughts. In the Snowblast cab he had been reminded of the event which, of all others he remembered, had struck with greatest impact. It had been four years ago. He thought, startled, was it really that long ago?four years since the gray November afternoon when, dazedly, he had pulled the p.a. microphone across his desk toward him-the microphone, rarely used, which overrode all others in the terminal-and cutting in on a flight arrival bulletin, had announced to concourses which swiftly hushed, the shattering news which seconds earlier had flashed from Dallas. His eyes, as he spoke then, had been on the photograph on the facing wall across his office, the photograph whose inscription read: To my friend Mel Bakersfeld, concerned, as I am, with attenuating the surly bonds of earth-John F. Kennedy. The photograph still remained, as did many memories. The memories began, for Mel, with a speech he had made in Washington, D.C. At the time, as well as airport general manager, he had been president of the Airport Operators Councilthe youngest leader, ever, of that small but influential body linking major airports of the world. AOC head– quarters was in Washington, and Mel flew there frequently. His speech was to a national planning congress. Aviation, Mel Bakersfeld had pointed out, was the only truly successful international undertaking. It transcended ideological boundaries as well as the merely geographic. Because it was a means of intermingling diverse populations at ever-diminishing cost, it offered the most practical means to world understanding yet devised by man. Even more significant was aerial commerce. Movement of freight by air, already mammoth in extent, was destined to be greater still. The new, giant jet airplanes, to be in service by the early 1970s, would be the fastest and cheapest cargo carriers in human history; within a decade, oceangoing ships might be dry-dock museum

pieces, pushed out of business in the same way that passenger airplanes had clobbered the Queen Mary and Elizabeth. 'rhe effect could be a new, worldwide argosy of trade, with prosperity for now impoverished nations. Technologically, Mel reminded his audience, the airbome segment of aviation offered these things, and more, within the lifetimes of today's middle-aged people. Yet, be had continued, while airplane designers wove the stuff of dreams into fabrics of reality, facilities on the ground remained, for the most part, products of shortsightedness or misguided baste. Airports, runway systems, terminals, were geared to yesterday, with scant –if any-provision for tomorrow; what was lost sight of, or ignored, was the juggernaut speed of aviation's progress. Airports were set up piecemeal, as individually as city balls, and often with as small imagination. Usually, too much was spent on showplace terminals, too little on operating areas. Coordinated, high-level planning, either national or international, was non-existent. At local levels, where politicians were apathetic about problems of ground access to airports, the situation was as bad, or worse. "We have broken the sound barrier," Mel declared, "but not the ground barrier." He listed specific areas for study and urged intemational planning-U.S. led and presidentially inspiredfor aviation on the ground. The speech was accorded a standing ovation and was widely reported. It produced approving nods from such diverse sources as The Times of London, Pravda, and The Wall Street Journal. The day after the speech, Mel was invited to the White House. The meeting with the President had gone well. It had been a relaxed, good-humored session in the private study on the White House second floor. J.F.K., Mel found, shared many of his own ideas. Subsequently, there were other sessions, some of them "brain trust" affairs involving Kennedy aides, usually when the Administration was considering aviation matters. After several such occasions, with informal aftermaths, Mel was at home in the White House, and less surprised than he had been at first to find himself there at all. As time went on, he drifted into one of those easygoing relationships which J.F.K. encouraged among those with expertise to offer him. It was a year or so after their first encounter that the President sounded Mel out about beading the Federal Aviation Agency. (It was an Agency then, an Administration later.) Sometime during the Kennedy second term, which everyone assumed would be automatic, the incumbent 17AA Administrator, Halaby, would move on to other things. How did Mel feel about implementing, from within, some of the measures he had advocated from without? Mel had replied that he was very interested indeed. He made it clear that if an offer were made, his answer would be yes. Word filtered out, not from Mel, but through others who had had it from the top. Met was "in"-a duespaid member of the inner circle. His prestige, high before, went higher still. The Airport Operators Council re-elected him president. His own airport commissioners voted him a handsome raise. Barely in his late thirties, he was considered the Childe Roland of aviation management. Six months later, John F. Kennedy made his fateful Texas journey. Like others, Mel was first stunned, then later wept. Only later still, did it dawn on him that the assassin's bullets had ricocheted onto the lives of others, his own among them. He discovered he was no longer "in" in Washington. Najeeb Halaby did, in fact, move on from FAA-to a senior vice-presidency of Pan Americanbut Mel did not succeed him. By then, power had shifted, influences waned. Mel's name, he later learned, was not even on President Johnson's short list for the FAA appointment. Mel's second tenure as AOC president ran out uneventfully and another bright young man succeeded him. Met's trips to Washington ceased. His public ap– pearances became limited to local ones, and, in a way, he found the change to be a relief. His own responsibilities at Lincoln International had already increased as air traffic proliferated beyond most expectations. He became intensely occupied with planning, coupled with efforts to persuade the Board of Airport Commissioners to his own viewpoints. There was plenty to think about, including troubles at home. His days and weeks and months were full. And yet, there was a sense that time and opportunity had passed him by. Others were aware of it. Unless something dramatic occurred, Mel surmised, his career might continue, and eventually end, precisely where he was. "Tower to mobile one-what is your position?" The radio enjoinder broke through Mel's thoughts, returning him abruptly to the present. He turned up the radio volume and reported. By now, he was nearing the main passenger terminal, its lights becoming clearer, despite the still heavily falling snow. The aircraft parking areas, he observed, were as fully occupied as when he left, and there was still a line of arriving aircraft waiting for gate positions to be vacated. "Mobile one, hold until the Lake Central Nord crosses ahead of you, then follow it in.»
«This is mobile one. Roger." A few minutes later, Met eased his car into the terminal basement parking area. Near his parking stall was a locked box with an airport telephone. He used one of his passkeys to open the box, and dialed the Snow Desk. Danny Farrow answered. Was there any fresh news, Met inquired, about the mired A6reo-Mexican jet? "Negative," Danny said. "And the tower chief said to tell you that not being able to use runway three zero is still slowing traffic fifty percent. Also, he's getting more phone complaints from Meadowood every time there's a takeoff over there." Mel said grimly, "Meadowood will have to suffer." Community meeting or not, there was nothing he could do to eliminate overhead noise for the time being. The most important thing at the moment was to reduce the lag in operations. "Where's Joe Patroni now? «
«Same place. Still held up.»
«Can he make it for sure? «
«TWA says so. He has a phone in his car, and they've been in touch.»
«As soon as Joe gets here," Mel instructed, "I want to be notified. Wherever I am.»
«That'll be downtown, I guess." Mel hesitated. There was no reason, he supposed, why he need remain at the airport any longer tonight. Yet again, unaccountably, he had the same sense of foreboding which had disturbed him on the airfield. He remembered his conversation earlier with the tower watch chief, the line of waiting aircraft on the ramp apron outside. He made a spontaneous decision. "No, I won't be downtown. We need that runway badly, and I'm not leaving until I know positively that Patroni is out there on the field, in charge.»
«In that case," Danny said, "I suggest you call your wife right now. Here's the number she's at." Mel wrote it down, then depressed the receiver rest and dialed the downtown number. He asked for Cindy, and after a brief wait, heard her voice say sharply, "Mel, why aren't you here? «
«I'm sorry, I was held up. There've been problems at the airport. It's a pretty big storm . . "Damn you, get down here fast!" From the fact that his wife's voice was low, Mel deduced there were others within hearing. Just the same, she managed to convey a surprising amount of venom. Mel sometimes tried to associate the voice of Cindy nowadays with the Cindy he remembered before their marriage fifteen years ago. She had been a gentler person then, it seemed to him. In fact, her gentleness had been one of the things which appealed to Mel when they first met in San Francisco, he on leave from the Navy and Korea. Cindy had been an actress at the time, though in a minor way because the career she had hoped for had not worked out, and clearly wasn't going

to. She had had a succession of diminishingly small parts in summer stock and television, and afterward, in a moment of frankness, admitted that marriage had been a welcome release from the whole thing. Years later, that story changed a little, and it became a favorite gambit of Cindy's to declare that she had sacrificed her career and probable stardom because of Mel. More recently, though, Cindy didn't like her past as an actress being mentioned at all. That was because she had read in Town and Country that actresses were seldom, if ever, included in The Social Register, and addition of her own name to the Register was something Cindy wanted very much indeed. "I'M Coming downtown to join you just as soon as I can," Mel said. Cindy snapped, "That isn't good enough. You should be here already. You knew perfectly well that tonight was important to me, and a week ago you made a definite promise.»
«A week ago I didn't know we were going to have the biggest storm in six years. Right now we've a runway out of use, there's a question of airport safety . . .»
«You've people working for you, haven't you? Or are the ones you've chosen so incompetent they can't be left alone?" Mel said irritably, "They're highly competent. But I get paid to take some responsibility, too.»
«It's a pity you can't act responsibly to me. Time and again I make important social arrangements which you enjoy demolishing." Listening, as the words continued, Mel sensed that Cindy was getting close to boiling point. Without any effort, he could visualize her now, five feet six of imperious energy in her highest heels, clear blue eyes flashing, and her blonde coiffed head tilted back in that damnably attractive way she had when she was angry. That was one reason, Mel supposed, why, in their early years of marriage, his wife's temper outbursts seldom dismayed him. The more heated she became, it always seemed, the more desirable she grew. At such moments, he had invariably let his eyes rove upward, beginning w her ankles-not hurriedly, because Cindy possessed extraordinarily attractive ankles and legs; in fact, better than those of most other women Mel knew-to the rest of her which was just as proportionate and physically appealing. In the past, when his eyes had made their appreciative assessment, some two-way physical communion sprang into being, prompting each to reach out, to touch one another, impulsively, hungrily. The result was predictable. Invariably, the origin of Cindy's anger was forgotten in a wave of sensuality which engulfed them. Cindy had an exciting, insistent savagery, and in their lovemaking would demand, Hurt me, goddam you, hurt me!" At the end, they would be spent and drained, so that picking up the skein of a quarrel was more than either had the wish or energy to do. It was, of course, a way of shelving, rather than resolving, differences which-Mel realized, even early on –were fundamental. As the years passed, and passion lessened, accumulated differences became more sharply accented. Eventually, they ceased entirely to use sex as a panacea and, in the past year or so, physical intimacy of any kind had become more and more occasional. Cindy, in fact, whose bodily appetites had always needed satis– fying whatever the state of mind between them, appeared in recent months to have become indifferent altogether. Mel had wondered about that. Had his wife taken a lover? It was possible, and Mel supposed he ought to care. The sad thing was, it seemed easier not to be concerned. Yet there were still moments when the sight or sound of Cindy in her willful anger could stir him physicafly, arousing old desires. He had that feeling now as he listened to her excoriating voice on the telephone. When he was able to cut in, he said, "It isn't true that I enjoy demolishing your arrangements. Most of the time I go along with what you want, even though I don't think the things we go to are all that important. What I Z, would enjoy are a few more evenings at home with the children."

"That's a lot of crap," Cindy said, "and you know it." He felt himself tense, gripping the telephone more tightly. Then he conceded to himself: perhaps the last remark was true, to an extent. Earlier this evening he had been reminded of the times he had stayed at the airport when he could have gone home-merely because he wanted to avoid another fight with Cindy. Roberta and Libby had got left out of the reckoning then, as children did, he supposed, when marriages went sour. He should not have mentioned them. But apart from that, tonight was different. He ought to stay on at the airport, at least until it became known for sure what was happening about the blocked runway. "Look," Mel said, "let's make one thing clear. I haven't told you this before, but last year I kept some notes. You wanted me to come to fifty-seven of your charitable whingdings. Out of that I managed forty-five which is a whole lot more than I'd attend from choice, but it isn't a bad score.»
«You bastard! I'm not a ball game where you keep a scorecard. I'm your wife." Mel said sharply, "Take it easy!" He was becoming angry, himself. "Also, in case you don't know it, you're raising your voice. Do you want all those nice people around to know what kind of a heel you have for a husband? «
«I don't give a goddam!" But she said it softly, just the same. "I do know you're my wife, which is why I intend to get down there just as soon as I can." What would happen, Mel wondered, if he could reach out and touch Cindy now? Would the old magic work? He decided not. "So save me a place, and tell the waiter to keep my soup warm. Also, apologize and explain why I'm late. I presume some of the people there have heard there is an airport." A thought struck him. "Incidentally, what's the occasion tonight? «
«I explained last week.»
«Tell me again.»
«It's a publicity party-cocktails and dinner-to promote the costume ball which is being given next month for the Archidona Children's Relief Fund. The press is here. They'll be taking photographs." Now Me[ knew why Cindy wanted him to hurry. With him there, she stood a better chance of being in the photographs-and on tomorrow's newspaper social pages. "Most other committee members," Cindy insisted, "have their husbands here already.»
«But not all? «
«I said most.»
«And you did say the Archidona Relief Fund? «
«Yes . "Which Arcbidona? There are two. One's in Ecuador, the other in Spain." At college, maps and geography had fascinated Mel, and he had a retentive memory. For the first time, Cindy hesitated. Then she said testily, "What does it matter? This isn't the time for stupid questions." Mel wanted to laugh out loud. Cindy didn't know. As usual, she had chosen to work for a charity because of who was involved, rather than what. He said maticiously, "How many letters do you expect to get from this one? «
«I don't know what you mean.»
«Oh, yes, you do." To be considered for listing in The Social Register, a new aspirant needed eight sponsoring letters from people whose names already appeared there. At the last count Mel had heard, Cindy had collected four. "By God, Mel, if you say anything-tonigbt or any other time . . .»
«Will the letters be free ones, or do you expect to pay for them like those other two?" He was aware of having an advantage now. It happened very rarely. Cindy said indignantly, "That's a filthy allegation. It's impossible to buy your way in. . .»
«Nuts!" Mel said. "I get the canceled checks from our joint account. Remember?" There was a silence. Then Cindy asserted, low-voiced and savagely, "Listen to me! You'd better get here to– night, and soon. If you don't come, or if you do come and embw-rass me by saying anything of what you did just now, it'll be the end. Do you understand? «
«I'm not sure that I do." Mel spoke quietly. Instinct cautioned him that this was an important moment for them both. "Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what you mean." Cindy countered, "You figure it out." She hung up. On his way from the parking area to his office, Mel's fury seethed and grew. Anger had always come to him less quickly than to Cindy. He was the slow-bum type. But he was burning now. He was not entirely sure of the focus of his anger. A good deal was directed at Cindy, but there were other factors, too: His professional failure, as he saw it, to prepare eflectually for a new era of aviation; a seeming inability to infuse others any longer with his own convictions; high hopes, unfulfilled. Somehow, between them all, Mel thought, his personal and professional lives had become twin testaments to inadequacy. His marriage was on the rocks, or apparently about to go there; if and when it did, he would have failed his children, also. At the same time, at the airport, where he was trustee for thousands who passed through daily in good faith, all his efforts and persuasion had failed to halt deterioration. There, the high standards he had worked to build were eroding steadily. En route to the executive mezzanine, he encountered no one he knew. It was just as well. If he had been spoken to, whatever question had been put, be would have snarled a heated answer. In his office, he peeled off the heavy outdoor clothing and let it stay on the floor where it fell. He lit a cigarette. It had an acrid taste, and he stubbed it out. As he crossed to his desk, be was aware that the pain in his foot had returned, increas– ingly. There was a time-it seemed long ago-when on nights like this, if his wounded foot pained him, he would have gone home, where Cindy would have in– sisted he relax. He would have a hot bath first, then after, while he lay face downward on their bed, she would massaae his back and neck with cool, firm fingers until pain ebbed out of him. It was unthinkable, of course, that Cindy would ever do the same thino again; but even if she did, he doubted that it would work. You could lose communication in other ways besides the spoken word. Seated at his desk, Mel put his head in his hands. As he had done on the airfield earlier, be shivered. Then, abruptly in the silent office, a telephone bell jangled. For a moment he ignored it. It rang again, and he realized it was the red alarm system telephone on a stand beside the desk. In two swift strides he reached it. "Bakersfeld here." He heard clicks and more acknowledgments as others came on the line. "This is Air Traffic Control," the tower chief's voice announced. "We have an airborne emergency, category three. 9
Keith Bakersfeld, Mel's brother, was a third of the way through his eight-hour duty watch in the air traffic control radar room. In radar control, tonight's storm was having a profound effect, though not a directly physical one. To a spectator, Keith thought, lacking an awareness of the complex story which a conglomeration of radarscopes was telling, it might have seemed that the storm, raging immediately outside, was a thousand miles away. The radar room was in the control tower, one floor down from the glass-surrounded eyrie-the tower cab –from which ATC directed aircraft movement on the

ground and immediate local flying. The radar section's jurisdiction extended beyond the airport, and radar controllers reached out to bridge the gap between local control and the nearest ATC regional center. The re– gional centers-usually miles from any airport-controlled main trunk airways and traffic coming on and off them. In contrast to the top portion of the tower, the radar room had no windows. Day and night, at Lincoln International, ten radar controllers and supervisors labored in perpetual semidarkness under dim moonglow lights. Around them, tightly packed equipment-radarscopes, controls, radio communications panels-lined all four walls. Usually, controllers worked in shirtsleeves since the temperature, winter or summer, was maintained at an even seventy degrees to protect the delicate electronic gear. The pervading tone in the radar room was calm. However, beneath the calmness, at all times, was a constant nervous strain. Tonight, the strain had been added to by the storm and, within the past few minutes, it had heightened further still. The effect was like stretching an already tensioned spring. Cause of the added tension was a signal on a radarscope which, in turn, had triggered a flashing red light and alarm buzzer in the control room. The buzzer had now been silenced, but the distinctive radar signal re– mained. Known as a double blossom, it had flowered on the semidarkened screen like a tremulous green carnation and denoted an aircraft in distress. In this case, the aircraft was a U. S. Air Force KC-135, high above the airport in the storm, and seeking an immediate emergency landing. Keith Bakersfeld bad been working the flatface scope on which the emergency signal appeared, and a supervisor had since joined him. Both were now transmitting urgent, swift decisions-by interphone to controllers at adjoining positions, and by radio to other aircraft. The tower watch chief on the floor above had been promptly informed of the distress signal. He, in turn, had declared a category three emergency, alerting airport ground facilities. The flatface scope, at the moment the center of attention, was a horizontal glass circle, the size of a bicycle tire, set into a tabletop console. Its surface was dark green, with brilliant green points of light showing all aircraft in the air within a forty-mile radius. As the aircraft moved, so did the points of light. Beside each light point was a small plastic marker, identifying it. The markers were known colloquially as "shrimp boats" and controllers moved them by hand as aircraft progressed and their positions on the screen changed. As more aircraft appeared, they were identified by voice radio and similarly tagged. New radar systems dispensed with shrimp boats; instead, identifying letter-number codes-including altitude-appeared directly on the radar screen. But the newer method was not yet in wide use and, like all new systems, had bugs which needed elimination. Tonight there was an extraordinary number of aircraft on the screen, and someone had remarked earlier that the green pinpoints were proliferating like fecund ants. Keith was seated closest to the flatface, his lean, spindly figure hunched forward in a gray steel chair. His body was tense; his legs, hooked underneath the chair, were as rigid as the chair itself. He was concentrating, his face strained and gaunt, as it had been for months. The green reflection of the scope accentuated, eerily, deep hollows beneath his eyes. Anyone who knew Keith well, but had not seen him for a year or so, would have been shocked both by his appearance and his change in manner. Once, he had exuded an amiable, relaxed good-nature; now, all signs of it were gone. Keith was six years younger than his brother, Met, but nowadays appeared a good deal older. The change in Keith Bakersfeld had been noticed by his colleagues, some of whom were working tonight at other control positions in the radar room. They were also well aware of the reason for the change, a reason which had evoked genuine sympathy. However, they

were practical men with an exacting job, which was why the radar supervisor, Wayne Tevis, was observing Keith covertly at this moment, watching the signs of increasing strain, as he had for some time. Tevis, a lanky, drawling Texan, sat centrally in the radar room on a high stool from where he could peer down over the shoulders of operators at the several radarscopes serving special functions. Tevis had personally equipped the stool with castors, and periodically he rode it like a horse, propelling himself by jabs of his hand-tooled Texan boots wherever he was needed at the moment. During the preceding hour, Wayne Tevis had at no point moved far away from Keith. The reason was that Tevis was ready, if necessary, to relieve Keith from radar watch, a decision which instinct told him might have to be made at any time. The radar supervisor was a kindly man, despite his mM flamboyance. He dreaded what he might have to do, and was aware of how far-reaching, for Keith, its effect could be. Nevertheless, if he had to, he would do it. His eyes on Keith's flatface scope, Tevis drawled, "Keith, old son, that Braniff flight is closing on Eastern. If you turn Braniff right, you can keep Eastern going on the same course." It was something which Keith should have seen himself, but hadn't. The problem, which most of the radar room crew was working at feverishly, was to clear a path for the Air Force KC-135, which had already started down on an instrument landing approach from ten thousand feet. The difficulty was-below the big Air Force jet were five airline flights, stacked at intervals of a thousand feet, and orbiting a limited airspace. All were awaiting their turn to land. A few mfles on either side were other columns of aircraft, simflarly stacked and, lower still, were three more airliners, already on landing approaches. In between them all were busy departure corridors. Somehow, the military flight had to be threaded down through the stacked civilian airplanes without a collision occurring. Under normal conditions the assignment would test the strongest nerves. As it was, the situation was complicated by radio failure in the KC135, so that voice contact with the Air Force pilot had been lost. Keith Bakersfeld thumbed his microphone. "Braniff eight twenty-nine, make an immediate right turn, heading zero-niner-zero." At moments like this, even though pressures built to fever pitch, voices should stay calm. Keith's voice was highpitched and betrayed his nervousness. He saw Wayne Tevis glance at him sharply. But the blips on the radar screen, which had been uncomfortably close, began separating as the Braniff captain obeyed instructions. There were moments-this was one-when air traffic controllers thanked whatever gods they acknowledged for the swift, alert responses of airline pilots. The pilots might beef, and often did subsequently, at being given sudden course changes which required tight, abrupt turns and shook up passengers. But when a controller gave the order "immediate," they obeyed instantly and argued later. In another minute or so the Braniff flight would have to be turned again, and so would Eastern, which was at the same level. Even before that, there must be new courses for two TWAs-one higher, the other lowerplus a Lake Central Convair, an Air Canada Vanguard, and a Swissair just coming on the screen. Until the KC-135 had come through, these and others must be given zigzag courses, though for brief distances only, since none must stray into adjoining airspaces. In a way, it was like an intricate chess game, except that all the pieces were at various levels and moving at several hundred miles an hour. Also as part of the game, pieces had to be raised or lowered while they still moved forward, yet none must come closer than three miles laterally or a thousand feet vertically from another, and none must go over the edge of the board. And while all of it happened, the thousands of passengers, anxious for their journeys to end, had to sit in their airborne seats-and wait. In occasional moments of detachment, Keith wondered how the Air Force pilot, in difficulty and letting

down through storm and crowded airspace, was feeling at this moment. Lonely, probably. Just as Keith himself was lonely; just as all life was lonely, even with others physically close beside you. The pilot would have a co-pilot and crew, in the same way that Keith had fellow-workers who, at this moment, were near enough to touch. But that was not the kind of nearness which counted. Not when you were alone in that inner room of the mind, where no one else could enter, and where you lived-apart and solitary-with awareness, memory, conscience, fear. Alone, from the moment you were born until you died. Always, and forever, alone. Keith Bakersfeld knew how much alone a single human being could be. In succession, Keith gave fresh courses to Swissair, one of the TWAs, Lake Central, and Eastern. Behind him he could bear Wayne Tevis trying to raise the Air Force KC-135 on radio again. Still no response, except that the distress radar blip, actuated by the KC-135 pilot, still blossomed on the scope. The position on the blip showed the pilot was doing the right thing-following exactly the instructions he had been given before the radio failure happened. In doing so, be would be aware that air traffic control could anticipate his movements. He would also know that his position could be seen by radar on the ground, and trusted that other traffic would be routed out of his way. The Air Force flight, Keith knew, had originated in Hawaii and come non-stop after mid-air refueling over the West Coast, its destination Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington. But west of the Continental Divide there had been an engine failure, and afterward electrical trouble, causing the airplane commander to elect an unscheduled landing at Smoky HUI, Kansas. At Smoky Hill, however, snow clearance of runways had not been completed, and the KC-135 was diverted to Lincoln International. Air Route Control nursed the military flight northeast across Missouri and Illinois. Then, thirty miles out, West Arrivals Control, in the person of Keith Bakersfeld, took over. It was soon after– ward that radio failure had been added to the pilot's other troubles. Most times, when flying conditions were normal, military aircraft stayed clear of civil airports. But in a storm like tonight's help was asked-and given-without question. In this darkened, tightly packed radar room, other controllers, as well as Keith, were sweating. Yet no hint of pressures or tension must be betrayed by controllers' voices when speaking with pilots in the air. The pilots had plenty to concern themselves with at any time. Tonight, buffeted by the storm, and flying solely on instruments with nil visibility outside their cockpits, demands upon their skill were multiplied. Most pilots had already flown extra time because of delays caused by heavy traffic; now they would have to stay even longer in the air. From each radar control position a swift, quiet stream of radio orders was going out to hold even more flights clear of the danger area. The flights were awaiting their own turn to land and every minute or two were being joined by new arrivals coming off airways. A controller, his voice low but urgent, called over his shoulder. "Chuck, I've got a hot one. Can you take Delta seven three?" It was a controller's way of saying he was in trouble and had more than he could handle. Another voice, "Hell!-I'm piled up, too … Wait! . . . Affirmative, I got it." A second's pause. "Delta seven three from Lincoln approach control. Turn left; heading one two zero. Maintain altitude, four thousand!" Con trollers helped each other when they could. A few min utes from now the second man might need help himself. "Hey, watch that Northwest; he's coming through from the other side. Christ! it's getting like the Outer Driv ' e at rush hour." . . . "American four four, hold present heading, what's your altitude? That Lufthansa de– parture's way off course. Get him the hell out of the approach area!" . . . Departing flights were being routed well around the trouble area, but arrivals were being held up, valuable landing time lost. Even later, when the

emergency would be over, everyone knew it would take an hour or more to unravel the aerial traffic jam. Keith Bakersfeld was trying hard to maintain his concentration, to retain a mental picture of his sector and every aircraft in it. It required instant memorizingidentifications, positions, types of aircraft, speeds, altitudes, sequence of landing . . . a detailed diagram, in depth, with constant changes . . . a configuration which was never still. Even at quieter times, mental strain was unceasing; tonight, the storm was taxing cerebral effort to its limit. A controller's nightmare was to "lose the picture," a situation where an overtaxed brain rebelled and everything went blank. It happened occasionally, even to the best. Keith had been the best. Until a year ago, he was one whom colleagues turned to when pressures built to unreason. Keith, I'm getting swamped. Can you take a couple? He always had. But, lately, roles had changed. Now, colleagues shielded him as best they could, though there was a limit to how much any man could help another and do his own job, too. More radio instructions were needed. Keith was on his own; Tevis, the supervisor, had propelled himself and his high stool across the room to check another controller. Keith's mind clicked out decisions. Turn Branift left, Air Canada right, Eastern through a hundred and eighty degrees. It was done; on the radar screen, blips were changing direction. The slowermoving Lake Central Convair could be left another minute. Not so, the Swissair jet; it was converging with Eastern. Swissair must be given a new course immediately, but what? Think fast! Forty-five degrees right, but for a minute only, then right again. Keep an eye on TWA and Northwest! A new flight coming in from the west at high speed-identify, and find more airspace. Concentrate, concentrate! Keith determined grimly: He would not lose the picture; not tonight, not now. T'here was a reason for not doing so; a secret he had shared with no one, not even Natalie, his wife. Only Keith Bakersfeld, and Keith alone, knew that this was the last time he would ever face a radarscope or stand a watch. Today was his last day with air traffic control. It would be over soon. It was also the last day of his life. "Take a break, Keith." It was the tower watch chief's voice. Keith had not seen the tower chief come, in. He had done so unobtrusively, and was standing by Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor. A moment earlier, Tevis had told the tower chief quietly, "Keith's all right, I reckon. For a few minutes I was worried, but he seemed to pull together." Tevis was glad he had not had to take the drastic action he had contemplated earlier, but the tower chief murmured, "Let's take him off a while, anyway"; and, as an afterthought, "I'll do it." Glancing at the two men together, Keith knew at once why he was being relieved. There was still a crisis, and they didn't trust him. The work break was a pretext; he wasn't due for one for half-an-hour. Should he protest? For a controller as senior as himself, it was an indignity which others would notice. Then he thought: Why make an issue now? It wasn't worth it. Besides, a ten-minute break would steady him. Afterward, when the worst of the emergency was over, he could return to work for the remainder of his shift. Wayne Tevis leaned forward. "Lee will take over, Keith." He motioned to another controller who had just returned from his own work break-a scheduled one. Keith nodded, without comment, though he remained in place and continued to give radio instructions to aircraft while the new man got the picture. It usually took several minutes for one controller to hand over to another. The man coming in had to study the radar display, letting the over-all situation build in his mind. He also needed to become mentally tensed. Getting tensed-consciously and deliberately-was a part of the job. Controllers called it "sharpening to an edge," and in Keith's fifteen years in air traffic control, he had watched it happen regularly, to others and to

himself. You did it, because you had to, when you took over a duty, as now. At other times it became a reflex action, such as when controllers drove to work together –in car pools, as some did. On leaving home, conversation would be relaxed and normal. At that point in the journey, a casual question like, "Are you going to the ball game Saturday?" would elicit an equally casual answer-"Sure am," or "No, I can't make it this week." Yet, nearing the job, conversation tautened, so that the same question-a quarter mile from the airport-might produce a terse "affirmative" or "negative," and nothing more. Coupled with tense mental sharpness was another requirement-a controlled, studied calmness at all times on duty. The two requirements-contradictory in terms of human nature-were exhausting mentally and, in the long run, took a toll. Many controllers developed stomach ulcers which they concealed through fear of losing their jobs. As part of the concealment, they paid for private medical advice instead of seeking free medical help to which their employment entitled them. At work, they hid bottles of Maalox-"'for the relief of gastric hyperacidity"-in their lockers and, at intervals, sipped the white, sweetish fluid surreptitiously. There were other effects. Some controllers-Keith Bakersfeld knew several-were mean and irascible at home, or flew into rages, as a reaction to pent-up emotions at work. Coupled with irregular hours of working and sleeping, which made it difficult to regulate a household, the effect was predictable. Among air traffic controllers, the list of broken homes was long, divorce rates high. "Okay," the new man said, "I have the picture." Keith slid out from his seat, disconnecting his headset as the relieving controller took his place. Even before the newcomer was seated, he had begun transmitting fresh instructions to the lower TWA. The tower chief told Keith, "Your brother said he might drop around later," Keith nodded as he left the radar room. He felt no resentment against the tower chief, who had his own responsibilities to contend with, and Keith was glad he had made no protest about being relieved prematurely. More than anything else at the moment, Keith wanted a cigarette, some coffee, and to be alone. He was also glad –now the decision had been made for him-to be away from the emergency situation. He had been involved in too many in the past to regret missing the culmination of one more. Air traffic emergencies of one kind or another occurred several times a day at Lincoln International, as they did at any major airport. They could happen in any kind of weather-on the clearest day, as well as during a storm like tonight's. Usually, only a few people knew about such incidents, because almost all were resolved safely, and even pilots in the air were seldom told the reason for delays or abrupt instructions to turn this way or that. For one thing, there was no need for them to know; for another, there was never time for radio small talk. Ground emergency staffs-crash crews, ambulance attendants, and police-as well as airport senior management, were always alerted, and the action they took depended on the category of emergency declared. Category one was the most serious, but was rarely invoked, since it signaled an actual crash. Category two was notification of imminent danger to life, or physical damage. Category three, as now, was a general warning to airport emergency facilities to stand by; they might be needed, or they might not. For controllers, however, any type of emergency involved additional pressures and af– tereffects. Keith entered the controllers' locker room which adjoined the radar control room. Now that he had a few minutes to think more calmly, he hoped, for the sake of everyone, that the Air Force KC-135 pilot, and all others in the air tonight, made it safely down through the storm. The locker room, a small cubicle with a single window, had three walls of metal lockers, and a wooden bench down the center. A notice board beside the window held an untidy collection of official bulletins and notices from airport social groups. An unshaded light

bulb in the ceiling seemed dazzling after the radar room's semidarkness. No one else was in the locker room, and Keith reached for the light switch and turned it off. There were floodlights on the tower outside, and enough light came in for him to see. He lit a cigarette. Then, opening his locker, he took out the lunch pail which Natalie had packed before his departure from home this afternoon. As he poured coffee from a Thermos, he wondered if Natalie bad put a note in with his meal, or, if not a note, some inconsequential item she had clipped from a newspaper or a magazine. She often did one of both, hoping, he sup– posed, that it might cheer him. She had worked hard at doing that, right from the beginning of his trouble. At first, she had used obvious ones, though Keith had always realized-in a detached, dispassionate kind of way-exactly what Natalie was doing, or trying to. More recently, there had been fewer notes and clippings– Perhaps Natalie, too, had finaUy lost heart. She had had less to say lately, and he knew, from the redness of her eyes, there were times she had been crying. Keith had wanted to help her when he saw it. But how could he-when he couldn't help himself? A picture of Natalie was taped to the inside of his locker door-a snapshot, in color, which Keith bad taken. He had brought it here three years ago. Now, the light from outside shone on the picture only dimly, but he knew it so well, he could see what was there, whether highlighted or not. The picture showed Natalie in a bikini. She was seated on a rock, laughing, one slim hand held above her eyes to shield them from the sun. Her light brown hair streamed behind; her smaU, pert face showed the freckles which always appeared in summer. There was an impudent, pixyish quality to Natalie Bakersfeld, as well as strength of will, and the camera had caught both. In the rear of the picture was a blue-water lake, high ftrs, and a rocky outcropping. They had been on a motoring holiday in Canada, camping among the Haliburton lakes, and for once their children, Brian and Theo, had been left behind in Illinois, with Mel and Cindy. The holiday proved to be one of the happier times that Keith and Natalie had ever known. Perhaps, Keith thought, it wasn't a bad thing to be remembering it tonight. Pushed in behind the photo was a folded paper. It was one of the notes he had been thinking about, which Natalie put occasionally in his lunch pail. This was one from a few months ago which, for some reason, he had saved. Though knowing what was there, he took the paper out and walked to the window to read. It was a clipping from a news magazine, with some lines below in his wife's handwriting. Natalie had all kinds of odd interests, some farranging, which she encouraged Keith and the boys to share. This clipping was about continuing experiments, by U.S. geneticists. Human sperm, it reported, could now be fast frozen. The sperm was placed in a deep freeze for storage where it remained in good condition indefinitely. When thawed, it could be used for fertdization of women at any time-either soon or generations hence. Natalie had written:

The Ark could have been 50 percent smaller, if Noah Had known the facts about frozen spermatazoa; It appears you can have babies by the score Merely by opening a refrigerator door. I'm glad we had our ration With love and passion. She had been trying then; still trying desperately to return their lives . . . the two of them; and as a family . . to the way they had been before. With love and passion. Met had joined forces, too, attempting with Natalie, to induce his brother to fight free from the tide-race of anguish and depression which engulfed him totally. Even then a part of Keith had wanted to respond. Summoning, from some deep consciousness, a spark of

spirit, he had sought to match their strength by drawing on his own; to respond to proffered love with love himself. But the effort failed. It failed-as he had known it would-because there was no feeling or emotion left within himself. Neither warmth, nor love, nor even anger to be kindled. Only bleakness, remorse, and allenveloping despair. Natalie realized their failure now; he was sure of that. It was the reason, he suspected, that she had been crying, somewhere out of sight. And Mel? Perhaps Mel, too, bad given up. Though not entirely-Keith remembered what the tower chief had told him. "Your brother said he might drop around It would be simpler if Mel didn't. Keith felt unequal to the ellort, even though they had been as close as brothers could be all their lives. Mel's presence might be complicating. Keith Nvas too drained, too weary, for complications any more. He wondered again if Natalie had put in a note with his meal tonight. fie took out the contents of the lunch pail carefully, hoping that she had. There were ham and watercress sandwiches, a container of cottage cheese, a pear, and wrapping paper. Nothing more. Now that he knew there was none, he wished desperately there had been some message; any message, even the most trifling. Then he realized-it was his own fault; there had been no time. Today, because of the preparations he needed to make, he had left home earlier than usual. Natalie, to whom he had given no advance warning, had been rushed. At one point, he had sug– gested not taking a lunch at all; he would get a meal, he said, at one of the airport cafeterias. But Natalie, who knew the cafeterias would be crowded and noisy, which Keith disliked, had said no, and gone ahead as quickly as she could. She had not asked why he wanted to leave early, though he knew she was curious. Keith was relieved that there had been no question. If there had been, he would have had to invent something, and he % AIRPORT
would not have wanted the last words between them to have been a lie. As it was, there had been enough time. He had driven to the airport business area and registered at the O'Hagan Inn where, earlier in the day, he had made a reservation by telephone. He had planned everything carefully, using a plan worked out several weeks ago, though he had waited-giving himself time to think about it, and be sure-before putting the plan into effect. After checking into his room, he had left the Inn and arrived at the airport in time to go on duty. The O'Hagan Inn was within a few minutes' drive of Lincoln International. In a few hours from now, when Keith's duty watch was ended, he could go there quickly. The room key was in his pocket. He took it out to check.
The inform a tion-wh ich the tower watch chief had relayed earlier to Mel Bakersfeld-about a meeting of Meadowood citizenry, was entirely accurate. The meeting, in the Sunday school hall of Meadowood First Baptist Church-fifteen seconds, as a jet flies, from the end of runway two five-had been in session half-an-hour. Its proceedings had started later than planned, since most of the six hundred adults who were present had had to battle their way, in cars and on foot, through deep snow. But somehow they had come. It was a mixed assemblage, such as might be found in any averagely prosperous dormitory community. Of the men, some were medium-level executives, others artisans, with a sprinkling of local tradespeople. In numbers, men and women were approximately equal. Since it was Friday night, the beginning of a weekend, most

were casually dressed, though exceptions were half a dozen v.~sitors from outside the community and several press rePorters. The Sunday school hall was now uncomfortably crowded, stuffy and smoke-filled. All available chairs were occupied, and at least a hundred people were standinv. That so many had turned out at all on such a night, leaving warm homes to do so, spoke eloquently of their mettle and concern. They were also, at the moment, unanimously angry. The anger-almost as tangible as the tobacco smoke –had two sources. First was the long-standing bitterness with the airport's by-product-the thunderous, ear-assaulting noise of jet propulsion which assailed the homes of Meadowood, day and night, shattering peace and privacy, both waking and sleeping. Second was the immediate frustration that, through a large part of the meeting so far, those assembled had been unable to hear one another. Some difficulty in hearing had been anticipated. After all, it was what the meeting was about, and a portable p.a. system had been borrowed from the church. What had not been expected, however, was that tonight jet aircraft would be taking off immediately overhead, rendering both human ears and the p.a. system useless. The cause, which the meeting neither knew nor cared about, was that runway three zero was blocked by the mired A6reo-Mexican 707, and other aircraft were being instructed to use runway two five instead. The latter runway pointed directly at Meadowood, like an arrow; whereas runway three zero, when usable, at least routed takeoffs slightly to one side. In a momentary silence the chairman, red-faced, shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, for years we have tried reasoning with the airport management and the airline companies. We have pointed to the violation of our homes. We have proved, with independent testimony, that normal living-under the bar-rage of noise we are forced to endure-is impossible. We have pleaded that our very sanity is in danger and that our wives, our children, and ourselves live on the edge of nervous breakdowns, which some among us have suffered already." The chairman was a beavy-jowled, balding man named Floyd Zanetta, who was a printing firm manager and Meadowood homeowner. Zanetta, sixtyish, was prominent in community affairs, and in the lapel of his sports jacket was a Kiwanis long-service badge. Both the chairman and an impeccably dressed younger man were on a small raised platform at the front of the hall. The younger man, seated, was Elliott Freemantle, a lawyer. A black leather briefcase stood open at his side. Floyd Zanetta slarnmed a hand on the lectern in front of him. "N"at do the airport and airlines do? I'll tell you what they do. They pretend; pretend to Listen. And while they are pretending, they make promises and more promises which they have no intention of fulfilling. The airport management, the FAA, and the airlines are cheats and liars . . ." The word "liars" was lost. It was engLdfed in a shattering, almost unbelievable crescendo of iound, a monstrous roar of power which seemed to seize the budding and shake it. As if protectively, many in the hall covered their ears. A few glanced upward nervously. Others, their eyes transmitting anger, spoke heatedly to those beside them, though only a Lip reader could have known what was said; no words were audible. A water pitcher near the chairman's lectern trembled. If Zanetta had not grasped it quickly, it would have fallen to the floor and shattered. As swiftly as it had begun and built, the roar lessened and faded. Already miles away and several thousand feet above, Flight 58 of Pan American was climbing through storm and darkness, reaching for higher, clearer altitudes, swinging onto course for Frankfurt, Germany. Now, Continental Airlines 23, destination Denver, Colorado, was rolling on the farther end of runway two five, cleared for takeoff-over Meadowood. Other flights, already in line on an adjoining taxiway, were waiting their turn to follow.
It had been the same way all evening, even before the Meadowood meeting started. And after it started, business had had to be conducted in brief intervals between the overwhelming din of takeoffs. Zanetta continued hastily, "I said they are cheats and liars. What is happening here and now is conclusive evidence. At the very least we are entitled to noise abatement procedures, but tonight even this . . .»
«Mr. Chairman," a woman's voice cut in from the body of the hall, "we've heard all this before. We all know it, and going over it again won't change anything." All eyes had turned to the woman, who was now standing. She had a strong, intelligent face and shoulder-length brown hair which had fallen forward, so that she brushed it back impatiently. "What I want to know, and so do others, is what else can we do, and where do we go from here?" There was an outburst of applause, and cheering. Zanetta said irritably, "If you'll kindly let me finish. . ." He never did. Once again, the same encompassing roar dominated the Sunday school ball. The tin-Ling, and the last remark, provided the only laughter, so far, of the evening. Even the chairman grinned ruefully as he raised his hands in a despairing gesture. A man's voice called peevishly, "Get on with it!" Zanetta nodded agreement. He continued speaking, picking his way-like a climber over rocks-between recurring peaks of sound from overhead. What the community of Meadowood must do, he declared, was to discard politeness and reasonable approaches to the airport authority and others. Instead, a purely legalistic attack must be the order from now on. The residents of Meadowood were citizens with legal rights, which were being infringed upon. Along with those legal rights went recourse to the courts; therefore, they must be prepared to fight in the courts, with toughness, even viciousness if necessary. As to what form a legalistic offensive should take, it so happened that a noted lawyer, Mr. Elliott Freemantle, whose offices were downtown in the Loop , had consented to be present at the meeting. Mr. Freemantle had made a study of laws affecting excessive noise, privacy and airspace, and, very soon, those who had braved the weather to attend would have the pleasure of hearing this distinguished gentleman. He would, in fact, present a proposal … As the clich6s rolled on, Elliott Freemantle fidgeted. He passed a hand lightly over his barber-styled, graystreaked hair, fingering the smoothness of his chin and cheeks-he had shaved an hour before the meetingand his keen sense of'smell confirmed that the exclusive face lotion, which be always used after shaving and sunlamp sessions, still lingered. He recrossed his legs, observing that his two-hundred dollar alligator shoes still gleamed with mirror clearness, and was careful not to spoil the crease in the trousers of his tailored Blue Spruce pebble-weave suit. Elliott Freemantle had long ago discovered that people preferred their lawyers unlike their doctors-to look prosperous. Prosperity in a lawyer conveyed an aura of success at the bar, success which those about to engage in litigation wanted for themselves. Elliott Freemantle hoped that most of those in the hall would shortly become litigants, and that he would represent them. Meanwhile, he wished the old cluck of a chairman, Zanetta, would get the bell off his feet so that he, Freemantle, could take over. There was no surer way to lose the confidence of an audience, or a jury, than by letting them think faster than yourself, so that they became aware of what you were going to say before you said it. Freemantle's finely honed intuition told him this was what was happening now. It meant that when his own turn came, he would have to work that much harder to establish his competence and superior intellect. Some among his legal colleagues might have questioned whether Elliott Freemantle's intellect was, in fact, superior. They might even have objected to the chairman's description of him as a gentleman. Fellow lawyers sometimes regarded Freemantle as an

exhibitionist who commanded high fees mainly through a showman's instinct for attracting attention. It was conceded, though, that he had an enviable knack for latching early onto causes which later proved spectacular and profitable. For Elliott Freemantle, the Meadowood situation seemed custom made. He had read about the community's problem and promptly arranged, through contacts, to have his name suggested to several homeowners as the one lawyer who could most likely help them. As a result, a homeowners committee eventually approached him, and the fact that they did so, rather than the other way around, gave him a psychological advantage he had planned from the beginning. Meanwhile, he had made a superficial study of the law, and recent court decisions, affecting noise and privacy-a subject entirely new to him-and when the committee arrived, he addressed them with the assurance of a lifetime expert. Later, he had made the proposition which resulted in this meeting tonight, and his own attendance. Thank God! It looked as if Zanetta, the chairman, were finally through with his windy introduction. Banal to the last, he was intoning, ". . . and so it is my privilege and pleasure to present . . ." Scarcely waiting for his name to be spoken, Elliott Freemantle bounded to his feet. He began speaking before Zanetta's buttocks had made contact with his chair. As usual, he dispensed with all preliminaries. "If you are expecting sympathy from me, you can leave right now, because there won't be any. You won't get it at this session, or others we may have later. I am not a purveyor of crying towels, so if you need them, I suggest you get your own, or supply each other. My business is law. Law, and nothing else." He had deliberately made his voice harsh, and he knew he had jolted them, as he intended to. He had also seen the newspaper reporters look up and pay attention. There were three of them at the press table near the front of the hall-two young men from the big city dailies and an elderly woman from a local weekly. All were important to his plans, and he had taken the trouble to find out their names and speak to them briefly before the meeting started. Now, their pencils were racing. Good! Cooperation with the press always ranked high in any project of Elliott Freemantle's, and he knew from experience that the best way to achieve it was by providing a lively story with a fresh angle. Usually he succeeded. Newspaper people appreciated that-a lot more than free drinks or food-and the livelier and more colorful the story, the more friendly their reportage was inclined to be. He returned his attention to the audience. Only a shade less aggressively, he continued. "If we decide, between us, that I am to represent you, it will be necessary for me to ask you questions about the effect of airport noise on your homes, your families, your own physical and mental health. But do not imagine I shall be asking the questions because I care personally about these things, or you as individuals. Frankly, I don't. You may as well know that I am an extremely selfish man. If I ask these questions, it will be to discover to what extent wrong has been done you under the law. I am already convinced that some wrong has been done –perhaps considerable wrong-and, in that event, you are entitled to legal redress. But you may as well know that whatever I learn, and however deeply I become involved, I am not given to losing sleep about the welfare of my clients when I'm away from my office or the courts. But . . ." Freemantle paused dramatically, and stabbed a finger forward to underscore his words. "But, in my office and in the courts, as clients, you would have the utmost of my attention and ability, on questions of law. And on those occasions, if we work to– gether, I promise you will be glad I am on your side and not against you." Now he had the attention of everyone in the hall. Some, both men and women, were sitting forward in their chairs, striving not to miss any words as he paused –though for the minimum time-as aircraft continued overhead. A few faces had become hostile as he spoke, but not many. It was time, though, to relax the pressure

a little. lie gave a swift, short smile, then went on seriously. "I inform you of these things so that we understand each other. Some people tell me that I am a mean, unpleasant man. Maybe they are right, though personally if ever I want a lawyer for myself I'll make sure of choosing someone who is mean and unpleasant, also tough-on my behalf." There were a few approving nods and smiles. "Of course, if you want a nicer guy who'll hand you more sympathy, though maybe a bit less law"-Elliott Freemantle shrugged-"that's your privilege." He had been watching the audience closely and saw a responsible-looking man, in heavy rimmed glasses, lean toward a woman and whisper. From their expressions, Freemantle guessed the man was saying, "This is more like ifl-what we wanted to hear." The woman, probably the whisperer's wife, nodded agreement. Around the hall, other faces conveyed the sam e impression. As usual on occasions like this, Elliott Freemantle had shrewdly judged the temper of the meeting and calculated his own approach. He sensed early that these people were weary of platitudes and sympathy-wellmeaning but ineffective. His own words, blunt and brutal, were like a cold, refreshing douche. Now, before minds could relax and attention wander, be must take a new tack. The moment for specifics had arrived-tonight, for this group, a discourse on the law of noise. Tbe trick to holding audience attention, at which Elliott Freemantle excelled, was to stay half a mental pace ahead; that much and no more, so that those listening could follow what was being said, but must remain sufficiently alert to do so. "Pay attention," he commanded, "because I'm going to talk about your particular problem." The law of noise, he declared, was increasingly under study by the nation's courts. Old concepts were changing. New court decisions were establishing that excessive noise could be an invasion of privacy as well as trespass on property rights. Moreover, courts were in a mood to grant injunctions and financial recompense where intrusion-including aircraft intrusion-could be proven. Elliott Freemantle paused while another takeoff thundered overhead, then gestured upward. "I believe you will have no difficulty in proving it here." At the press table, all three reporters made a note. The United States Supreme Court, he went on, had already set a precedent. In U.S. v. Causby the court ruled that a Greensboro , North Carolina , chicken farmer was entitled to compensation because of "invasion" by military planes flying low above his house. In handing down the Causby decision, Mr. Justice Wifliam 0. Douglas had stated, ". . . if the landowner is to have full enjoyment of the land, he must have exclusive control of the immediate reaches of the enveloping atmosphere." In another case reviewed by the Supreme Court, Griggs v. County of Allegheny, a similar principle was upheld. In state courts of Oregon and Washington , in Thornburg v. Port of Portland and Martin v. Port of Seattle , damages for excessive aircraft noise had been awarded, even though airspace directly above the plaintiffs had not been violated. Other communities had begun, or were contemplating, similar legal action, and some were employing sound trucks and movie cameras as aids to proving their case. The trucks took decibel readings of noise; the cameras recorded aircraft altitudes. The noise frequently proved greater, the altitudes lower, than airlines and airport management admitted. In Los Angeles, a homeowner had filed suit against L. A. International Airport , asserting that the airport, by permitting landings on a newly extended runway close to his home, had taken an easement on his property without due process of law. The homeowner was claiming ten thousand dollars which he believed to be equivalent to the decrease in value of his home. Else– where, more and more similar cases were being argued in the courts. The recital was succinct and impressive. Mention of a specific surn-ten thousand dollars-evoked immediate interest, as Elliott Freemantle intended that it should. The entire presentation sounded authoritative, factual,

and the product of years of study. Only Freemantle himself knew that his "facts" were the result, not of poring over law reports, but of two hours, the previous afternoon, spent studying newsclippings in a downtown newspaper morgue. There were also several facts which he had failed to mention. The chicken farmer ruling of the Supreme Court was made more than twenty years earlier, and total damages awarded were a trifling three hundred and seventy-five dollars-the actual value of some dead chickens. The Los Angeles suit was merely a claim which had not yet come to trial and might never do so. A more significant case, Batten v. U.S., on which the Supreme Court had ruled as recently as 1963, Elliott Freemantle knew about but conveniently ignored. In Batten, the court accepted that only an actual "physical invasion" could create liability; noise alone did not do so. Since, at Meadowood, there had been no such invasion, the Batten precedent meant that if a legal case was launched, it might well be lost before it was begun. But lawyer Freemantle had no wish for this to be known, at least not yet; nor was he overly concerned whether a case, if brought to court, might eventually be won or lost. What he wanted was this Meadowood homeowners group as clients-at a whopping fee. On the subject of fee, he had already counted the house and done some mental arithmetic. The result delighted him. Of six hundred people in the hall, he estimated that five hundred, probably more, were Meadowood property owners. Allowing for the presence of husbands and wives together, it meant there was a minimum of two hundred and fifty prospective clients. If each of those two hundred and fifty could be persuaded to sign a one hundred dollar retainer a,~reement-which Elliott Freemantle hoped they would before the evening was over-a total fee in excess of twenty-five thousand dollars seemed decidedly within reach. On other occasions he had managed precisely the same thing. It was remarkable what you could accomplish with audacity, particularly when people were white hot in pursuing their own interests. An ample supply of printed retainer forms was in his bag. This memorandum of ajqreement between . . . . . . . . hereinaf ter known as plaintifils and Freemantle and Sye, attorneys at law … who will undertake plaintijffls legal representation in promotion of a claim for damages sustained due to aircraft use of the Lincoln International Airport facility . . . Plaintijff Is agrees to pay the said Freemantle and Sye one hundred dollars, in four installments of twenty-five dollars, the first installment now due and payable, the balance quarterly on demand … Further, if the suit is successful Freemantle and Sye will receive ten percent of the gross amount of any damages awarded. . . The ten percent was a long shot because it was highly unlikely that there would ever be any damages to collect. Just the same, strange things sometimes happened in law, and Elliott Freemantle believed in covering all bases. "I have informed you of the legal background," he asserted. "Now I intend to give you some advice." He flashed one of his rare, quick smiles. "This advice will be a free sample, but-like toothpaste-any subsequent tubes will have to be paid for." There was a responsive laugh which he cut off brusquely with a gesture. "My advice is that there is little time for anything else but action. Action now." The remark produced handclapping and more nods of approval. There was a tendency, he continued, to regard legal proceedings as automatically slow and tedious. Often that was true, but on occasions, if determination and legal skill were used, the law could be harried along. In the present instance, legal action should be begun at once, before airlines and airport, by perpetuation of noise over a period of years, could claim custom and usage. As if to underline the point, still another aircraft thundered overhead. Before its sound could die, Elliott Freemantle shouted, "So I repeat-my advice to you is wait no longer! You should act tonight. Now!" Near the front of the audience, a youngish man. in an

alpaca cardigan and hopsack slacks sprang to his feet. "By God!-tell us how we start.»
«You start-if you want to-by retaining me as your legal counsel." There was an instant chorus of several hundred voices. "Yes, we want to." The chairman, Floyd Zanetta, was now on his feet again, waiting for the shouting to subside. He appeared pleased. Two of the reporters had craned around and were observing the obvious enthusiasm throughout the haH. The third reporter-the elderly woman from the local weekly-looked up at the platform with a friendly smile. It had worked, as Elliott Freemantle had known it would. The rest, he realized, was merely routine. Within the next half hour a good many of the retainer blanks in his bag would be signed, while others would be taken home, talked over, and most likely mailed tomorrow. These people were not afraid of signing papers, or of legal procedures; they had become accustomed to both in purchasing their homes. Nor would a hundred dollars seem an excessive sum; a few might even be surprised that the figure was that low. Only a handful would bother doing the mental arithmetic which Elliott Freemantle had done himself, and even if they objected to the size of the total amount, he could argue that the fee was justified by responsibility for the large numbers involved. Besides, he would give them value for their moneya good show, with fireworks, in court and elsewhere. He glanced at his watch; better get on. Now that his own involvement was assured, he wanted to cement the rela– tionship by staging the first act of a drama. Like every.thing else so far, it was something he had already planned and it would gain attention-much more than this meeting-in tomorrow's newspapers. It would also confirm to these people that he meant what he said about not wasting any time. The actors in the drama would be the residents of Meadowood, here assembled, and he hoped that every– one present was prepared to leave this hall and to stay out late. The scene would be the airport. The time: tonight.
At approximately the same time that Elliott Freemantle was savoring success, an embittered, thwarted, former building contractor named D. 0. Guerrero was surrendering to failure. Guerrero was fifteen miles or so from the airport, in a locked room of a shabby walk-up apartment on the city's South Side. The apartment was over a noisome, greasy-spoon lunch counter on 51st Street, not far from the stockyards. D. 0. Guerrero was a gaunt, spindly man, slightly stoop-shouldered, with a sallow face and protruding, narrow jaw. He had deep-set eyes, pale thin lips, and a slight sandy mustache, His neck was scrawny, with a prominent Adam's apple. His hairline was receding. He had nervous hands, and his fingers were seldom still. He smoked constantly, usually lighting a fresh cigarette from the stub of the last. At the moment he needed a shave and a clean shirt, and was perspiring, even though the room in which he bad locked himself was cold. His age was fifty; he looked several years older. Guerrero was married, and had been for eighteen years. By some standards, the marriage was good, if unspectacular. D.O. (through most of his life he bad been known by his initials) and Inez Guerrero accepted each other equably, and the idea of coveting some other partner seemed not to occur to them. D. 0. Guerrero, in any case, had never been greatly interested in women; business, and financial maneuvering, occupied Ws

thoughts far more. But in the past year, a mental gulf had opened between the Guerreros which Inez, though she tried, was unable to bridge. It was one result of a series of business disasters which reduced them from comparative affluence to near poverty, and eventually forced a succession of moves-first from their comfortable and spacious, if heavily mortgaged, suburban home to other quarters less pretentious, and later still to this seamy, drafty, cockroach-infested, two-room apartment. Even though Inez Guerrero did not enjoy their situation, she might have made the best of it if her husband had not become increasingly moody, savagely bad tempered, and at times impossible to talk with. A few weeks ago, in a rage, he had struck Inez, bruising her face badly, and though she would have forgiven him, he would neither apologize nor discuss the incident later. She feared more violence and, soon after, sent their two teen-age children-a boy and a girl-to stay with her married sister in Cleveland. Inez herself stayed on, taking a job as a coffee-house waitress, and although the work was hard and the pay small, it at least provided money for food. Her husband seemed scarcely to notice the children's absence, or her own; his mood recently had been a deep and self-contained dejection. Inez wits now at her job. D. 0. Guerrero was in the apartment alone. He need not have locked the door of the small bedroom where he was occupied, but had done so as an added guarantee of privacy, even though he would not be there for long. Like others this night, D. 0. Guerrero would shortly leave for the airport. He held a confirmed reservation, plus a validated ticket-for tonight-on Trans America Flight Two to Rome. At this moment, the ticket was in a pocket of his topcoat, also in the locked room, slung over a rickety wooden chair. Inez Guerrero had no knowledge of the ticket to Rome, nor did she have the slightest inkling of her husband's motive in obtaining it. The Trans America ticket was for a round trip excursion which normally cost four hundred and seventy-four dollars. However, by lying, D. 0. Guerrero had obtained credit. He had paid forty-seven dollars down, acquired by pawning his wife's last possession of any value-her mother's ring (Inez had not yet missed it) –and promised to remit the balance, plus interest, in monthly installments over the next two years. It was highly unlikely that the promise would ever be fulfilled. No self-respecting finance company or bank would have loaned D. 0. Guerrero the price of a bus ticket to Peoria, let alone an airline fare to Rome. They would have investigated his background thoroughly, and dis– covered that he had a long history of insolvency, a parcel of long-standing personal debts, and that his homebuilding company, Guerrero Contracting Inc., had been placed in bankruptcy a year earlier. An even closer check into Guerrero's tangled finances might have disclosed that during the past eight months –using his wife's name-be had attempted to raise capital for a speculative land deal, but failed to do so. In course of this failure he had incurred even more debts. Now, because of certain fraudulent statements, as well as being an undischarged bankrupt, exposure, which seemed imminent, would involve criminal prosecution and almost certainly a prison term. Slightly less serious, but just as immediate, was the fact that the rent of this apartment, wretched as it was, was three weeks overdue, and the landlord had threatened eviction tomorrow. If evicted, they would have nowhere else to go. D. 0. Guerrero was desperate. His financial rating was minus zero. Airlines, though, were notably easygoing about extending credit; also, if a debt went sour they were usually less tough in collection procedures than other agencies. This was calculated policy. It was based on the fact that fare-paying air travelers, over the years, had proven themselves an unusually honest cross-section of society, and bad debt losses of most airlines were remarkably low. Deadbeats like D. 0. Guerrero troubled them rarely; therefore they were not geared-because it AIRPORT ill
was not worth while-to defeat the kind of subterfuge he had used. He avoided, by two simple means, more than a cursory credit investigation. First, he produced an "employer's reference" which he had typed himself on the letterhead of a defunct company he once operated (not the bankrupt one), the company's address being his own post office box. Second, in typing the letter he deliberately misspelled his surname, changing the initial from "G" to "B," so that a routine consumer credit check of "Buerrero" would produce no information, instead of the harmful data recorded under his correct name. For further identification he used his Social Security card and driver's license, on both of which he carefully changed the same initial beforehand, and had since changed it back again. Another point he remembered was to make sure that his signature on the time payment contract was indecipherable, so it was not clear whether he had signed "G" or "B." The misspelling was perpetuated by the clerk who yesterday made out his airline ticket in the name of "D. 0. Buerrero," and D. 0. Guerrero had weighed this carefully in light of his immediate plans. He decided not to worry. If any query was raised afterward, the error of a single letter, both on the "employer's reference" and the ticket, would appear to be a genuine mistake. There was nothing to prove he had arranged it deliberately. In any case, when checking in at the airport later tonight, he intended to have the spelling corrected-on the Trans America flight manifest as well as on his ticket. It was important, once he was aboard, to be sure there was no confusion about his correct identity. That was part of his plan, too. Another part of D. 0. Guerrero's plan was to destroy Flight Two by blowing it up. He would destroy himself along with it, a factor which did not deter him since his life, he reasoned, was no longer of value to himself or others. But his death could be of value, and he intended to make sure it was. Before departure of the Trans America flight, he would take out flight insurance for seventy-five thousand dollars, naming his wife and children as beneficiaries. He rationalized that he had done little for them until now, but his final act would be a single transcendent gesture on their behalf. He believed that what he was doing was a deed of love and sacrifice. In his warped, perverted mind-driven by desperation-he had given no thought to other passengers who would be aboard Flight Two, nor to the aircraft's crew, all of whose deaths would accompany his own. With a psychopath's total lack of conscience he had considered others only to the extent that they might circumvent his scheme. He believed he had anticipated all contingencies. The business, about his ticket would not matter once the aircraft was en route. No one could prove he had not intended to pay the installments he contracted for; and even if the fake "employer's reference" was exposed –as it probably would be-it demonstrated nothing except that lie had obtained credit under false pretenses. That, in itself, would have no bearing on a subsequent insurance claim. Another thing was that he deliberately bought a round-trip ticket to create the appearance of not only intending to complete the outward flight, but also to return. As to choosing a Rome flight, he had a second cousin in Italy whom he had never seen, but occasionally talked of visiting-a fact which Inez knew. So at least there would seem an element of logic to his choice. D. 0. Guerrero bad had his plan in mind for several months while his fortunes were worsening. During that time he studied carefully the histories of air disasters where airliners were destroyed by individuals seeking to profit from flight insurance. The number of instances was surprisingly large. In all cases on record the motive had been exposed by post-crash investigation and, where conspirators remained alive, they were charged with murder. The flight insurance policies of those involved had been invalidated. There was no means of knowing, of course, how many other disasters, where causes remained unknown,

bad been the result of sabotage. The key factor was the presence or absence of wreckage. Wherever wreckage was recovered, trained investigators pieced it together in an attempt to learn its secrets. They usually succeeded. If there was an explosion in mid-air, its traces remained, and the nature of the explosion could be determined. Therefore, D. 0. Guerrero reasoned, his own plan must preclude the recovery of wreckage. This was the reason he had selected Trans America's non-stop flight to Rome. A large portion of the journey of Flight Two-The Golden Argosy-was above ocean, where wreckage from a disintegrated airplane would never be found. Using one of the airline's own passenger brochures which conveniently showed air routes, aircraft speeds, and even had a feature called Chart Your Own Position, Guerrero calculated that after four hours' flying-al– lowing for average winds-Flight Two would be over mid-Atlantic. He intended to check the calculation and amend it, if necessary, as the journey progressed. He would do so, first by noting the exact time of takeoff, then by listening carefully to the announcements which captains always made over cabin p.a. systems about the aircraft's progress. With the information it would be a simple matter to decide if the flight was behind schedule, or ahead, and by how much. Finally, at approximately a point he had already decided on-eight hundred miles east of Newfoundland-he would trigger an explosion. It would send the aircraft, or what remained of it, plummeting toward the sea. No wreckage could ever be found. The debris of Flight Two would remain forever, hidden and secret, on the Atlantic Ocean floor. There would be no examination, no later exposure of the cause of the aircraft's loss. Those left might wonder, question, speculate; they might even guess the truth, but they could never know. Flight insurance claims-in the absence of any evidence of sabotage-would be settled in full. The single element on which everything else hinged was the explosion. Obviously it must be adequate to destroy the airplane, but-equally important-it must occur at the right time, For the second reason D. 0. Guerrero had decided to carry the explosive device aboard and set it off himself. Now, within the locked bedroom, he was putting the device together, and despite his familiarity-as a building contractor-with explosives, was still sweating, as he had been since he started a qLiarter of an hour ago. There were five main components-three cartridges of dynamite, a tiny blasting cap with wires attached, and a single cell transistor radio battery. The dynamite cartridues were Du Pont Red Cross Extra-small but exceedingly powerful, containing forty percent nitroglycerin; each was an inch and a quarter in diameter and eight inches long. They were taped together with black electrician's tape and, to conceal their purpose, were in a Ry-Krisp box, left open at one end. Guerrero had also laid out several other items, carefully, on the ragged coverlet of the bed where he was working. These were a wooden clothespin, two thumbtacks, a square inch of clear plastic, and a short length of string. Total value of the equipment which would destroy a six and a half million dollar air-plane was less than five dollars. All of it, including the dynamite-a "leftover" from D. 0. Guerrero's days as a contractor –had been bought in hardware stores. Also on the bed was a small, flat attach6 case of the type in which businessmen carried their papers and books when traveling by air. It was in this that Guerrero was now histalling the explosive apparatus. Later, he would carry the case with him on the flight. It was all incredibly simple. It was so simple, in fact, Guerrero thought to himself, that most people, lacking a knowledge of explosives, would never believe that it would work. And yet it would-with shattering, devastating deadliness. He taped the Ry-Krisp box containing the dynamite securely in place inside the attach6 case. Close to it be fastened the wooden clothespin and the battery. The battery would fire the charge. The clothespin was the

switch which, at the proper time, would release the current from the battery. His hands were trembling. He could feel sweat, in rivulets, inside his shirt. With the blasting cap in place, one mistake, one slip, would blow himself, this room, and most ot the budding, apart, here and now. He held his breath as he connected a second wire from the blasting cap and dynamite to one side of the clothespin. He waited, aware of his heart pounding, using a handkerchief to wipe moisture from his hands. His nerves, his senses, were on edge. Beneath him, as he sat on the bed, he could feet the thin, lumpy mattress. The decrepit iron bedstead screeched a protest as he moved. He resumed working. With exquisite caution, he connected another wire. Now, only the square inch of clear plastic was preventing the passage of an electric current and thereby an explosion. The plastic, less than a sixteenth of an inch thick, had a small hole near its outer edge. D. 0. Guerrero took the last item left on the bed-the string-and passed one end through the hole in the plastic, then tied it securely, being cautious not to move the plastic. The other end of the string he pushed through an inconspicuous hole, already drilled, which went through to the outside of the attacb6 case, emerging under the carrying handle. Leaving the string fairly loose inside the case, on the outside he tied a second knot, large enough to prevent the string from slipping back. Finally-also on the outside-he made a finger-size loop, like a miniature bangman's noose, and cut off the surplus string. And that was it. A finger through the loop, a tug on the string! Electric current would flow, and the explosion would be instant, devastating, final, for wbornever or whatever was nearby. Now that it was done, Guerrero relaxed and ]it a cigarette. He smiled sardonically as be reflected again on how much more complicated the publ ic-incl u ding writers of detective fiction-imagined the manufacture of a bomb to be. In stories he bad read there were always elaborate mechanisms, clocks, fuses, which ticked or hissed or spluttered, and which could be circumvented if immersed in water. In reality, no complications were required-only the simple, homely components he had just put together. Nor could anything stop the detonation of his kind of bomb-neither water, bullets, nor bravery-once the string was pulled. Holding the cigarette between his lips, and squinting through its smoke, D. 0. Guerrero put some papers carefully into the attach6 case, covering the dynamite, clothespin, wires, battery, and string. He made sure the papers would not move around, but that the string could move freely under them. Even if he opened the case for any reason, its contents would appear innocent. He closed the case and locked it. He checked the cheap alarm clock beside the bed. It was a few minutes after 8 P.m., a little less than two hours to flight departure time. Time to go. He would take the subway uptown to the airline terminal, then board an airport bus. He had just enough money left for that, and to buy the flight insurance policy. The thought reminded him that he must allow sufficient time at the airport to get insurance. He, pulled on his topcoat quickly, checking that the ticket to Rome was still in the inside pocket. He unlocked the bedroom door and went into the mean, shabby living room, taking the attach6 case with him, holding it gingerly. One final thing to do! A note for Inez. He found a scrap of paper and a pencil and, after thinking for several seconds, wrote:
I won't be home for a few days. I'm going away. I expect to have some good news soon which will surprise you.
He signed it D.O. For a moment he hesitated, softening. It wasn't much of a note to mark the end of eighteen years of marriage. Then be decided it would have to do; it would be a mistake to say too much. Afterward, even without wreckage from Flight Two, investigators would put the passenger list under a microscope. The note, as well as all other papers he had left, would be examined minutely. He put the note on a table where Inez would be sure to see it. As he went d ownstairs D. 0. Guerrero could hear voices, and a jukebox playing, from the greasy-spoon lunch counter. He turned up the collar of his topcoat, with the other hand holding the attach6 case ti-hfly. Under the carrying handle of the case, the loop of string like a hang gman's noose was close to his curled fingers. Outside, as he left the South Side building and headed for the subway, it was still snowing.

PART TWO
8:30 P.M.-11 P.M. (CST)
1
Once more, Joe Patroni returned to the warmth of his car and telephoned the airport. The TWA maintenance chief reported that the road between himself and the airport was stiH blocked by the traffic accident which had delayed him, but the chances of getting through soon looked good. Was the A6reo-Mexican 707, he inquired, still stuck in mud out on the airfield? Yes, he was informed, it was; furthermore, every few minutes, everyone concerned was calling TWA to ask where he was, and how much longer he would be, because his help was needed urgently. Without waiting to warm himself fully, Patroni left the car and liurried back down the highway, through the still faLling snow and deep slush underfoot, to where the accident had occurred. At the moment, the scene around the wrecked tractor-trailer transport looked like a staged disaster for a wide screen movie. The mammoth vehicle still lay on its side, blocking all four traffic lanes. By now it was completely snow covered and, with none of its wheels touching ground, seemed like a dead, rolled-over dinosaur. Floodlights and flares, aided by the whiteness of the snow, made the setting seem like day. The floodlights were on the three tow trucks which Patroni had urged sending for, and all had now arrived. The brilliant red flares had been planted by state police, of whom several more had appeared, and it seemed that when a 121 state trooper lacked something to do, he lit another flare. As a result, the display of pyrotechnics was worthy of the Fourth of July. The arrival of a TV camera crew, a few minutes earlier, had heightened the stage effect. The self-important crew had come with blaring horn and illegal flashing beacon, driving down a shoulder of the road in a maroon station wagon blazoned WSHT. Typically, the four young men who comprised the TV crew had taken over as if the entire event had been arranged for their convenience, and all further developments could now await th6r pleasure. Several state troopers, having ignored the illegal beacon on the station wagon, were engaged in waving the two trucks from their present positions into new ones, as the TV men directed. Before he left to make his telephone call, Joe Patroni had carefully coaxed the two trucks into locations which would give them the best leverage, together, to move the disabled tractor-trailer. As he left, the truck drivers and helpers were connecting heavy chains which he knew would take several more minutes to secure. The state police had been glad of his aid, and a burly police lieutenant, by that time in charge at the scene, had told the tow truck drivers to take their instructions from Patroni. But now, incredibly, the chains were removed, except for one which a grinning tow truck operator was handling as photofloods and a portable TV camera fo– cused on him. Behind the camera and lights a crowd of people, even larger than before, had assembled from other blocked vehicles. Most were watching the TV filming interestedly, their earlier impatience and the cold bleak misery of the night apparently forgotten for the moment. A sudden gust of wind slapped icy wet snow into Joe Patroni's face. Too late, his hand went to the neck of his parka. He felt some of the snow slide in, penetrate his shirt, and soak him miserably. Ignoring the discomfort, he strode toward the state police lieutenant and demanded, "Who in hell changed the trucks? The way they're lined now, you couldn't move a peck of coondirt. All they'll do is pull each other."

"I know, Mister." The lieutenant, tall, broad-shouldered, and towering above the short, stocky figure of Patroni, appeared fleetingly embarrassed. "But the TV guys wanted a better shot. They're from a local station, and it's for the news tonight-all about the storm. Excuse me." One of the television men-himself huddled into a heavy coat-was beckoning the lieutenant into the filming. The lieutenant, head up, and ignoring the falling snow, walked with brisk authority toward the tow truck which was the center of the film shot. Two state troopers followed. The lieutenant, being careful to keep his face toward the camera, began giving instructions, with gestures, to the tow truck operator, instructions which were largely meaningless, but on screen would look impressive. The maintenance chief, remembering his need to get to the airport speedily, felt his anger rise. He braced himself to race out, grab the TV camera and lights, and smash them all. He could do it, too; instinctively his muscles tightened, his breathing quickened. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself. A trait of character of Joe Patroni's was a white-hot, violent temper; fortunately the violent part was not easily set off, but once it was, all reason and logic deserted him. The exercise of control over his temper was something he had tried to learn through his years of manhood. He had not always succeeded, though nowadays a single memory helped. On one occasion he had failed to have control. The result, forever after, haunted him. In the Army Air Forces of World War 11, Joe Patroni had been a redoubtable amateur boxer. He fought as a middleweight and, at one point, came within sight of the Air Forces championship, within his division, of the European Theater. In a bout staged in England shortly before the Normandy invasion, he had been matched against a crew chief named Terry O'Hale, a tough, tough Bostonian with a reputation for meanness in the ring, as well as out of it, Joe Patroni, then a young Pfc. aviation mechanic, knew O'Hale and disliked him. The dislike would not have mattered if O'Hale, as a calculated part of his ring technique, had not whispered constantly, "You greasy dago wop … Whyn't you fighting for the other side, you mother lovin' Eytie? . . . You cheer when they shoot our ships down, dago boy?" and other pleasantries. Patroni had seen the gambit for what it was –an attempt to get him rattled-and ignored it until O'Hale landed two low blows near the groin in swift succession, which the referee, circling behind, did not observe. The combination of insults, foul blows, and excruciating pain, produced the anger which Patroni's opponent had counted on. What he did not count on was that Joe Patroni would deliver an onslaught so swift, savage, and utterly without mercy that O'Hale went down before it and, after being counted out, was pronounced dead. Patroni was exonerated. Although the referee had not observed the low blows, others at ringside had. Even without them, Patroni had done no more than was expected-fought to the limit of his skill and strength. Only he was aware that for the space of seconds he had been berserk, insane. Alone and later, he faced the realization that even if he had known O'Hale was dying, he could not have stopped himself. In the end, he avoided the clich6 of abandoning fighting, or "hanging up his gloves for good," as the usual fiction sequence went. He had gone on fighting, employing in the ring the whole of his physical resource, not holding back, yet testing his own control to avoid crossing the hairline between reason and berserk savagery. He succeeded, and knew that he had, because there were tests of anger where reason struggled with the wild animal inside him-and reason won. Then, and only then, did Joe Patroni quit fighting for the remainder of his life. But control of anger did not mean dismissing it entirely. As the police lieutenant returned from camera range, Patroni confronted him heatedly. "You just blocked this road an extra twenty minutes. It took ten

minutes to locate those trucks where they should be; it'll take another ten to get them back." As he spoke, there was the sound of a jet aircraft overhead-a reminder of the reason for Joe Patroni's haste. "Now listen, mister." The lieutenant's face suffused a deeper red than it already was from cold and wind. "Get through your head that I'm in charge here. We're glad to have help, including yours. But I'm the one who's making decisions.»
«Then make one now!11 "I'll make what I'm. . .»
«No!-you listen to me." Joe Patroni stood glaring, uninhibited by the policeman's bulk above him. Something of the maintenance chief's contained anger, and a hint of authority, made the lieutenant hesitate. "There's an emergency at the airport. I already explained it; and why I'm needed there." Patroni stabbed his glowing cigar through the air for emphasis. "Maybe other people have reasons for hightailing it out of here too, but mine's enough for now. There's a phone in my car. I can call my top brass, who'll call your brass, and before you know it, somcbody'll be on that radio of yours asking why you're polishing your TV image in– stead of doing the job you're here for. So make a decision, the way you said! Do I call in, or do we move?" The lieutenant glared wrathfully back at Joe Patroni. Briefly, the policeman seemed ready to vent his own anger, then decided otherwise. He swung his big body toward the TV crew. "Get all that crap out of here! You guys have had long enough." One of the television men called over his shoulder, "We'll just be a few minutes more, chief." In two strides the lieutenant was beside him. "You heard me! Right now!" The policeman leaned down, his face still fierce from the encounter with Patroni, and the TV man visibly jumped. "Okay, okay." He motioned hastily to the others and the lights on the portable camera went out. "Let's have those two trucks back the way they were!" The lieutenant began firing orders at the state troopers, Who Moved quickly to execute them. He returned to Joe Patroni and gestured to the overturned transport; it was clear that he had decided Patroni was more use as an ally than an antagonist. "Mister, you still think we have to drag this rig? You sure we can't get it upright?" "Only if you want to block this road till daylight. You'd have to unload the trader first, and if you do . . .»
«I know, [ know! Forget it! We'll pull and shove now, and worry about damage later." The lieutenant gestured to the waiting line of traffic. "If you want to get moving right after, you'd better hustle your car out of line and move up front. You want an escort to the airport?" Patroni nodded appreciatively. "Thanks." Ten minutes later the last pindle tow hook snapped into place. Heavy chains from one tow truck were secured around the axles of the disabled transport tractor; a stout wire cable connected the chains to the tow truck w~nch. A second tow truck was connected to the toppled trailer. The third tow truck was behind the trailer, ready to push. The driver from the big transport unit, which, despite its overturning, was only partially damaged, groaned as he watched what was happening. "My bosses ain't gonna like this! That's a near-new rig. You're gonna tear it apart.»
«If we do," a young state trooper told him, "we'll be finishing what you started.»
«Wadda you care? Ain't nothing to you I just lost a good job," the driver grumbled back. "Maybe I should try for a soft touch next time-Re bein' a lousy cop." The trooper grinned. "Why not? You're already a lousy driver.»
«You figure we're ready?" the lieutenant asked Patroni. Joe Patroni nodded, He was crouching, observing the tautness of chains and cables. He cautioned, "Take it slow and easy. Get the cab section sliding first." The first tow truck began pulling with its winch; its wheels skidded on snow and the driver accelerated forward, keeping the tow chain straining. The overturned

transport's front portion creaked, slid a foot or two with a protesting scream of metal, then stopped. Patroni motioned with his hand. "Keep it moving! And get the trailer started!" The chains and cable between the trailer axles and the second tow truck tightened. The third tow truck pushed against the trailer roof. The wheels of all three tow trucks skidded as they fought for purchase on the wet, packed snow. For another two feet the tractor and trailer, still coupled together, as they had been when they rolled over, moved sideways across the highway to an accompanying ragged cheer from the crowd of on– lookers. The TV camera was functioning again, its lights adding brightness to the scene. A wide, deep gash in the road showed where the big transport had been. The tractor cab and the body of the loaded trailer were taking punishment, the trailer roof beginning to angle as one side of the trailer dragged against the road. The price to be paid-no doubt by insurers-for reopening the highway quickly would be a steep one. Around the road blockage, two snowplows-one on either side like skirmishers-were attempting to clear as much as they could of the snow which had piled since the accident occurred. Everything and everyone, by this time, was snow covered, including Patroni, the lieutenant, state troopers, and all others in the open. The truck motors roared again. Smoke rose from tires, spinning on wet, packed snow. Slowly, ponderously, the overturned vehicle shifted a few inches, a few feet, then slid clear across to the far side of the road. Within seconds, instead of blocking four traffic lanes, it obstructed only one. It would be a simple matter now for the three tow trucks to nudge the tractor-trailer clear of the highway onto the shoulder beyond. State troopers were already moving flares, preparatory to untangling the monumental traffic jam which would probably occupy them for several hours to come. The sound, once again, of a jet aircraft overhead was a reminder to Joe Patron! that his principal business this night still lay elsewhere. The state police lieutenant took off his cap and shook the snow from it. He nodded to Patroni. "I guess it's your turn, mister." A patrol car, parked on a shoulder, was edging onto the highway. The lieutenant pointed to it. "Keep close up behind that car. I've told them you'll be following, and they've orders to get you to the airport fast." Joe Patroni nodded. As he climbed into his Buick Wildcat, the lieutenant called after him, "And mister … Thanks!" 2
Captain Vernon Demerest stood back from the cupboard door he had opened, and emitted a long, low whistle. He was still in the kitchen of Gwen Meighen's apartment on Stewardess Row. Gwen had not yet appeared after her shower and, while waiting, he had made tea as she suggested. It was while looking for cups and saucers that he had opened the cupboard door. In front of him were four tightly packed shelves of bottles. All were miniature bottles of liquor-the ounce-and-a-half size which airlines served to passengers in flight. Most of the bottles had small airline labels above their brand names, and all were unopened. Making a quick calculation, Demerest estimated there were close to three hundred. He had seen airline liquor in stewardesses' apartments before, but never quite so much at one time. "We have some more stashed away in the bedroom," Gwen said brightly from behind him. "We've been saving them for a party. I think we've enough, don't you?" She had come into the kitchen quietly, and he turned.

As always since the beginning of their affair, he found the first sight of her enchanting and refreshing. Unusual for one who never lacked confidence with women, he had at such moments a heady sense of wonder that he had ever possessed Gwen at all. She was in a trim uniform skirt and blouse which made her seem even younger than she was. Her eager, high-cheekboned face was tilted upward, her rich black hair lustrous under the kitchen lights. Gwen's deep dark eyes regarded him with smiling, frank approval. "You can kiss me hard," she said. "I haven't put on makeup yet." He smiled, her clear melodious English voice delighting him again. As girls from upper-crust British private schools somehow managed to do, Gwen had captured all that was best in English intonation and avoided the worst. At times, Vernon Dernerest encouraged Gwen to talk, merely for the joy of hearing her speak. Not talking now, they held each other tightly, her lips responding eagerly to his. After a minute or so, Gwen pushed herself away. "No!" she insisted firmly. "No, Vernon dear. Not here.»
«Why not? We've time enough." There was a thickness to Demerest's voice, a rough impatience. "Because I told you-1 want to talk, and we don't have time for both." Gwen rearranged her blouse which had parted company with the skirt. "Hell!" he grumbled. "You bring me to the boil, and then . . . Oh, all right; I'll wait till Naples." He kissed her more gently. "All the way to Europe you can think of me up there on the flight deck, turned to 'simmer."' "I'll bring you to the boil again. I promise." She laughed, and leaning close against him, passed her long slim fingers through his hair and around his face. He groaned. "My God!-you're doing it right now.»
«Then that's enough." Gwen took his hands, which were around her waist, and pushed them resolutely from her. Turning away, she moved to close the cupboard he bad been looking into. "Hey, wait a minute. What about all those?" Dem– erest pointed to the miniature liquor bottles with their airline labels. "Those?" Gwen surveyed the four crowded shelves, her eyebrows arched, then switched to an expression of injured innocence. "They're just a few little old leftovers that passengers didn't want. Surely, Captain, sir, you're not going to report me for possession of leftovers." He said skeptically, "That many?" "Of course." Gwen picked up a bottle of Beefeater gin, put it down and inspected a Canadian Club whisky. "One nice thing about airlines is, they always buy the best brands. Care for one now?" He shook his head. "You know better than that.»
«Yes, I do; but you shouldn't sound so disapproving.»
«I just don't want you to get caught.»
«Nobody gets caught, and almost everybody does it. Look-every first class passenger is entitled to two of these little bottles, but some passengers use only one, and there are always others who won't have any.»
«The rules say you turn back all the unused ones.»
«Oh, for heaven's sake! So we do-a couple for appearances, but the rest the girls divide between them. The same thing goes for wine that's left over." Gwen giggled. "We always like a passenger who asks for more wine near the end of a trip. That way, we can officially open a fresh bottle, pour off one glass . . "I know. And take the rest home?" "You want to see?" Gwen opened another cupboard door. Inside were a dozen filled wine bottles. Demerest grinned. "I'll be damned.»
«This isn't all mine. My roommate and one of the girls next door have been saving theirs for the party we're planning." She took his arm. "You'll come, won't you?" "If I'm invited, I guess." Gwen closed both cupboard doors. "You will be." They sat down in the kitchen, and she poured the tea he had made. He watched admiringly while she did it. Gwen had a way of making even a casual session like this seem an occasion.

He noticed With amusement that she produced cups from a pile in another cupboard, all bearing Trans America insignia. They were the kind the airline used in flight. He supposed be should not have been stuffy about the airline liquor bottles; after all, stewardess "perks" were nothing new. It was just that the size of the hoard amazed him. All airline stewardesses, he was aware, discovered early in their careers that a little husbandry in airplane galleys could relieve their cost of living at home. Stewardesses learned to board their flights with personal hand baggage which was partially empty, using the space for surplus food-always of highest quality, since airlines purchased nothing but the best. A Thermos jug, brought aboard empty, was useful for carrying off spare liquids –cream or even decanted champagne. If a stewardess was really enterprising, Demerest was once assured, she could cut her weekly grocery bill in half. Only on international flights where, by law, all food-untoucbed or otherwise-was incinerated immediately after landing, were the aii k more cautious. All this activity was strictly forbidden by regulations of all airlines-but it still went on. Another thing stewardesses learned was that no inventory check of removable cabin equipment was ever made at the termination of a flight. One reason was that airlines simply didn't have time; another, it was cheaper to accept some losses than make a fuss about them. Because of this, many stewardesses managed to acquire home furnishings-blankets, pillows, towels, linen napkins, glasses, silverware-in surprising quantity, and Vernon Dernerest had been in stewardess nests where most items used in daily living seemed to have come from airline sources. Gwen broke in on his thoughts. "What I was going to tell you, Vernon , is that I'm pregnant." It was said so casually that at first the words failed to register. He reacted blankly. "You're what?" "Pregnant-p-r-e-g-n … He snapped irritably, "I know bow to spell it." His mind wasitill groping. "Are you sure?" Gwen laughed-her attractive silvery laugh-and sipped her tea. He sensed'she was making fun of him. He was also aware that she had never looked more lovely and desirable than at this moment. "That lire you just said, darling," she assured him, "is an old clich6. In every book I've ever read where there's a scene like this, the man asks, 'Are you sureT " "Well, goddammit, Gwen!" His voice rose. "Are you?" "Of course. Or I wouldn't be telling you now." She motioned to the cup in front of him. "More tea?" "No!" "What happened," Gwen said calmly, "is perfectly simple. On that layover we had in San Francisco . . . you remember?-we stayed at that gorgeous hotel on Nob Hill; the one with the view. What was it called?" "The Fairmont . Yes, I remember. Go on.»
«Well, I'm afraid I was careless. I'd quit taking pills because they were making me overweight; then I thought I didn't need any other precautions that day, but it turned out I was wrong. Anyway, because 1 was careless, now I have a teensy-weensy little Vernon Demerest inside me who's going to get bigger and bigger." There was a silence, then he said awkwardly, "I suppose I shouldn't ask this . . ." She interrupted. "Yes, you should. You're entitled to ask." Gwen's deep dark eyes regarded him with open honesty. "What you want to know is, has there been anyone else, and am I positive it's you? Right?" "Look, Gwen. . ." She reached out to touch his hand. "You don't have to be ashamed of asking. I'd ask too, if things were the other way around." He gestured unhappily. "Forget it. I'm sorry.»
«But I want to tell you." She was speaking more hurriedly now, a shade less confidently. "There hasn't been anybody else; there couldn't be. You see . . . I happen to love you." For the first time her eyes were lowered. She went on, "I think I did. . . I know I did … love you, I mean-even before that time we had in San Francisco . When I've thought about it, I've been glad of

that, because you ought to love someone if you're to have his baby, don't you think so?" " Listen to me, Gwen." He covered her hands with his own. Vernon Demerest's hands were strong and sensitive, accustomed to responsibility and control, yet capable of precision and gentleness. They were gentle now. Women he cared about always had that effect on him, in contrast to the couth brusqueness with which he dealt with men. "We have to do some serious talking, and make some plans." Now that the first surprise was over, his thoughts were becoming orderly. It was perfectly clear what needed to be done next. "You don't have to do anything." Gwen's head came up; her voice was under control. "And you can stop wondering whether I'm going to be difficult, or whether I'll make things awkward for you. I won't. I knew what I was getting into; that there was the chance this would happen. I didn't really expect it to, but it has. I had to tell you tonight because the baby's yours; it's part of you; you ought to know. Now you do, I'm also telling you you don't have to worry. I intend to work things out myself.»
«Don't be ridiculous; of course I'll help. You don't imagine I'd walk away and ignore the whole bit." The essential thing, he realized, was speed; the trick with unwanted fetuses was to get the little beggars early. He wondered if Gwen had any religious scruples about abortions. She had never mentioned having a religion, but sometimes the most –unlikely people were devout. He asked her , "Are you Catholic?" "No. 11
Well, he reflected, that helped. Maybe, then, a quick flight to Sweden would be the thing; a few days there was all Gwen would need. Trans America would cooperate, as airlines always did, providing they were not officially involved-the word "abortion" could be hinted at, but must never be mentioned. That way, Gwen could fly deadhead on a Trans America flight to Paris , then go by Air France to Stockholm on a reciprocal employee pass. Of course, even when she got to Sweden , the medical fees would still be damnably ex– pensive; tbcre was a jest among airline people that the Swedes took their overseas abortion customers to the clinic and the cleaners at the same time. The whole thing was cheaper in Japan , of course. Lots of airline stewardesses flew to Tokyo and got abortions there for fifty dollars. The abortions were supposed to be therapeutic, but Demerest mistrusted them; Sweden –or Switzerland –were more reliable. He had once declared: when he got a stewardess pregnant, she went first class. From his own point of view, it was a bloody nuisance that Gwen had got a bun in the oven at this particular time, just when he was building an extension on his house which, be remembered gloomily, had already gone over budget. Oh well, he would have to sell some stock-General Dynamics, probably; he had a nice capital gain there, and it was about time to take a profit. He would call his broker right after getting back from Rome –and Naples . He asked, "You're still coming to Naples with me?" "Of course; I've been looking for-ward to it. Besides, I bought a new negligee. You'll see it tomorrow night." He stood up from the table and grinned. "You're a shameless hussy.»
«A shameless pregnant hussy who shamelessly loves you. Do you love me?" She came to him, and he kissed her mouth, face, and an ear. He probed her pinna with his tongue, felt her arms tighten in response, then whispered, "Yes, I love you." At the moment, he reflected, it was true. ,' Vernon , dear.»
«Yes?" Her check was soft against his. Her voice came, muffled, from his shoulder. "I mean what I said. You don't have to help me. But if you really want to, that's different.»
«I want to." He decided he would sound her out about an abortion, on their way to the airport. Gwen disengaged herself and glanced at her watch; it was 8:20. "It's time, Captain, sir. We'd better go."

"I guess you know you really don't have to worry," Vernon Demerest said to Gwen as they drove. "Airlines are used to having their unmarried stewardesses get pregnant. It happens all the time. The last report I read, the national airline average was ten percent, per year." Their discussion, he noted approvingly, was becoming increasingly matter-of-fact. Good!-it was important to steer Gwen away from any emotional nonsense about this baby of hers. If she did become emotional, Demerest knew, all sorts of awkward things could happen, impeding commonsense. He was handling the Mercedes carefully, with the delicate yet firm touch which was second nature to him when controlling any piece of machinery, including a car or airplane. The suburban streets, which were newly cleared when he drove from the airport to Gwen's apartment, were thickly snow-covered again. Snow was still coming down continuously, and there were deepening drifts in wind-exposed places, away from the shelter of buildings. Captain Demerest warily skirted the larger drifts. He had no intention of getting stuck nor did he even want to get out of the car until the shelter of the enclosed Trans America parking lot was reached. Curled into the leather bucket seat beside him, Gwen said incredulously, "Is that really true-that every year, ten out of every hundred stewardesses get pregnant?" He assured her, "It varies slightly each year, but it's usually pretty close. Oh, the pill has changed things a bit, but the way I hear it, not as much as you'd expect. As a union officer I have access to that kind of information." He waited for Gwen to comment. When she made none, he went on, "What you have to remember is that airline stewardesses are mostly young girls, from the country, or modest city homes. They've had a quiet upbringing, an average life. Suddenly, they have a glamour job; they travel, meet interesting people, stay in the best hotels. It's their first taste of la dolce vita." He grinned. "Once in a while that first taste leaves some sediment in the glass.»
«That's a rotten thing to say!" For the first time since he had known her, Gwen's temper flared. She said indignantly, "You sound so superior; just like a man. If I have any sediment in my glass, or in me, let me remind you that it's yours, and even if we didn't plan to leave it there, I think I'd find a better name for it than that. Also, if you're lumping me together with all those girls you talked about from the country and 'modest city homes,' I don't like that one damn bit either." There was heightened color in Gwen's cheeks; her eyes flashed angrily. "Hey!" he said. "I like your spirit.»
«Well, keep on saying things like you did just now, and you'll see more of it.»
«Was I that bad?" "You were insufferable.»
«Then I'm sorry." Dernerest slowed the car and stopped at a traffic light which shone with myriad red reflections through the falling snow. They waited in silence until, with Christmas card effect, the color winked to green. When they were moving again, be said carefully, "I didn't mean to lump you with anybody, because you're an exception. You're a sophisticate who got careless, You said you did, yourself. I guess we were both careless.»
«All right." Gwen's anger was dissipating. "But don't ever put me in bunches. I'm me; no one else." They were quiet for several moments, then Gwen said thoughtfully, "I suppose we could call him that.»
«Call who what?" "You made me remember what I said earlier-about a little Vernon Dernerest inside me. If we had a boy, we could call him Vernon Demerest, Junior, the way Americans do."
He had never cared much for his own name. Now he began to say, "I wouldn't want my sonthen stopped. This was dangerous ground. "What I started to say, Gwen, was that airlines are used to this kind of thing. You know about the ThreePoint Pregnancy Program?" She said ,hortly, "Yes." It was natural that Gwen did. Most stewardesses were

aware of what airlines would do for them if they became pregnant, providing the stewardess herself agreed to certain conditions. Within Trans America the system was referred to familiarly as the "3-PPP." Other airlines used differing names, and arrangements varied slightly, but the principle was the same. "I've known girls who've used the 3-PPP," Gwen said. "I didn't think I'd ever need to.»
«Most of the others didn't, I guess." He added: "But you wouldn't need to worry. It isn't something that airlines advertise, and it all works quietly. How are we for time?" Gwen held her wrist watch under the light of the dash. "We're okay." He swung the Mercedes into a center lane carefully, judging his traction on the wet, snowy surface, and passed a lumbering utilities truck. Several men, probably an emergency crew, were clinging to the sides of the truck as it moved along. They looked weary, wet, and miserable. Demerest wondered what the men's reaction would be if they knew that he and Gwen would be under warm Neapolitan sunshine only hours from now. "I don't know," Gwen said; "I don't know if I could ever do it." Like Demerest, Gwen knew the reasoning of management which lay behind airline pregnancy programs. No airline liked losing stewardesses for any reason. Their training was expensive; a qualified stewardess represented a big investment. Another thing: the right kind of girls, with good looks, style, and personality, were hard to find. The way the programs worked was practical and simple. If a stewardess became pregnant, and did not plan to be married, obviously she could return to her job when her pregnancy was over, and usually her airline would be delighted to have her back. So, the arrangement was, she received official leave of absence, with her job seniority protected. As to her personal welfare, airline personnel departments had special sections which, among other things, would help make medical or nursing home arrangements, either where a girl lived or at some distant point, whichever she preferred. The airline helped psychologically, too, by letting the girl know that someone cared about her, and was looking out for her interest. A loan of money could sometimes be arranged. Afterward, if a stewardess who had had her child was diffident about returning to her original base, she would be quietly transferred to a new one of her own choosing. In return for all this, the airline asked three assurances from the stewardess-hence the Three-Point Pregnancy Program. First, the girl must keep the airline personnel department informed of her whereabouts at all times during her pregnancy. Second, she must agree that her baby be surrendered for adoption immediately after birth. The girl would never know the baby's adoptive parents; thus the child would pass out of her life entirely. However, the airline guaranteed that proper adoption procedures would be followed, with the baby being placed in a good home. Third-at the outset of the three-point program the stewardess must inform the airline of the name of the child's father. When she had done so, a representative from Personnel-experienced in such situationspromptly sought out the father with the objective of obtaining financial support for the girl. What the personnel man tried to obtain was a promise, in writing, of enough money to cover medical and nursing home expenses and, if possible, some or all of the stewardess's lost wages. Airlines preferred such arrangements to be amiable and discreet. If they had to, though, they could get tough, using their considerable corporate influence to bring pressure on non-cooperating individuals. It was seldom necessary to be tough where the father of a stewardess's baby was a flying crew member-a captain, or first or second officer. In such cases, gentle company suasion, plus the father's wish to keep the whole thing quiet, were usually enough. As to keeping quiet, the company obliged. Temporary support payments could be made in any reasonable way, or, if pre– fcrred, the airline made regular deductions from the employee's 'pay checks. Just as considerately, to avoid awkward questions at home, such deductions appeared under the heading: "personal misc." All money received by these means was paid, in its entirety, to the pregnant stewardess. The airline deducted nothing for its own costs. "The whole point about the program," Dernerest said, "is that you're not alone, and there's all kinds of help." He had been careful of one tbing-to avoid any reference, so far, to abortion. That was a separate subject because no airline would, or could, become directly involved in abortion arrangements. Advice on the subject was frequently given unofficially to those who sought it-by stewardess super-visors who learned, through experience of others, how such arrangements could be made. Their objective, if a girl was determined on abortion, was to insure its performance under safe medical conditions, avoiding at all costs the dangerous and disreputable practitioners whom desperate people sometimes resorted to. Gwen regarded her companion curiously. "Tell me one thing. How is it you know so much about all this?" "I told you, I'm a union officer. . .»
«You're part of the ALPA's for pilots. You don't have anything to do with stewardesses-not in that way, anyhow.»
«Maybe not directly.»
« Vernon , this has happened to you before … getting a stewardess pregnant … Vernon , hasn't it?" He nodded reluctantly. "Yes.»
«It must come pretty easily to you, knocking up stewardesses-those gullible country girls you were talking about. Or were they mostly from 'modest city homes'?" Gwen's voice was bitter. "How many have there been altogether',' Two dozen, a dozen? Just give me an idea in round figures He sighed. One; only one." He had been incredibly lucky, of course. It could have been many more, but his answer was the truth. Well … almost the truth; there was that other time, and the miscarriage, but that shouldn't count. Outside the car, traffic density was increasing as they neared the airport, now less than a quarter mile away. The bright lights of the great terminal, though dimmed tonight by snow, still fffled the sky. Gwen said, "The other girl who got pregnant. I don't want to know her name.. "I wouldn't tell you.»
«Did she use the thingummy-tbe three-point program?" "Yes. "Did you help her?" He answered impatiently, "I said earlier-wbat kind of a man do you think I am? Of course I helped her. If you must know, the company made deductions from my pay checks. That's how I knew about the way it's done." Gwen smiled. " 'Personal misc.T "Yes.,,
"Did your wife ever know?" He hesitated before answering. "No.»
«What happened to the baby?" "It was adopted.»
«What was it?" "Just a baby.»
«You know perfectly well what I mean. Was it a boy or a girl?" "A girl, I think.»
«You think.»
«I know. It was a girl." Gwen's questioning made him vaguely uncomfortable. It revived memories be would as soon forget. They were silent as Vernon Dernerest swung the Mercedes into the airport's wide and imposing main entry. High above the entry, soaring and floodlighted, were the futuristic parabolic arches-acclaimed achievement of a world-wide design contest-symbolizing, so it was said, the noble dreams of aviation. Ahead was an impressive, serpentine complex of roads, interchanges, flyovers, and tunnels, designed to keep the airport's unceasing vehic– ular traffic flowing at high speed, though tonight the elfects of the three-day storm were makin,-z progress slower than usual. Great mounds of snow were occupying normally usable road space. Snowplows and dump trucks, trying to keep remaining areas open, were adding their own confusion. After several brief hold-ups, Demerest turned onto the service road which would bring them to the Trans America main hangar area, where they would leave the car and take a crew bus to the terminal. Gwen stirred beside him. " Vernon ." 'Yes. "Thank you for being honest with me." She reached out touching his nearer hand on the steering wheel. "I'll be all right. I expect it was just a bit much, all at once. And I do want to go with you to Naples ." He nodded and smiled, then took his hand off the wheel and clasped Gwen's tightly. "We'll have a great time, and I promise we'll both remember it." He would do his best, he decided, to ensure the promise came true. For himself, it would not be difficult. He had been more attracted to Gwen, had felt more loving in her company, and closer in spirit, than with anyone else he remembered. If it were not for his marriage . . . He wondered, not for the first time, about breaking with Sarah, and marrying Gwen. Then he pushed the thought away. He had known too many others of his profession who had suffered upheavalpilots who forsook wives of many years, for younger women. More often than not, all the men had in the end were shattered hopes and heavy alimony. Sometime during their trip, though, either in Rome or Naples , he must have another serious discussion with Gwen. Their talk, so far, had not gone exactly as he would have liked, nor had the question of an abortion yet been raised. Meanwhile-the thought of Rome reminded himthere was the more immediate matter of his command of Trans America Flight Two. 3
The key was to room 224 of the O'Hagan Inn. In the semidarkened locker area adjoining the air traffic control radar room, Keith Bakersfeld realized he had been staring at the key and its identifying plastic tag for several minutes. Or had it been seconds only? It might have been. Just lately, like so much else, the passage of time seemed inconstant and disoriented. Sometimes at home recently, Natalie had found him standing quite still, looking into nothingness. And when she had asked, with concern, Why are you there?, only then had he become awakened to where he was, and had resumed movement and conscious thinking. What had happened, he supposed-then and a moment ago-was that his worn, weary mind had switched itself off. Somewhere inside the brain's intrica– cies-of blood vessels, sinew, stored thought, and emotion-was a tiny switch, a self-defense mechanism like a thermal cutout in an electric motor, which worked when the motor was running too hot and needed to be saved from burning itself out. The difference, though, between a motor and a human brain, was that a motor stayed out of action if it needed to. A brain would not. The floodlights outside, on the face of the control tower, still reflected enough light inward through the locker room's single window for Keith to see. Not that he needed to see. Seated on one of the wooden benches, the sandwiches Natalie had made, untouched, beside him, he was doing nothing more than holding the O'Hagan Inn key and thinking, reflecting on the par– adox of the human brain. A human brain could achieve soaring imagery, conceive poetry and radarscopes, create the Sistine Chapel and a supersonic Concord6. Yet a brain, tooholding memory and conscience-could be compelling,

self-tormenting, never resting; so that only death could end its persecution. Death . . . with oblivion, forgetfulness; with rest at last. It was the reason that Keith Bakersfeld had decided on suicide tonight. He must go back soon to the radar room. There were still several hours of his shift remaining, and he had made a pact with himself to finish his air traffic control duty for tonight. He was not sure why, except that it seemed the right thing to do, and he had always tried to do the right thing, conscientiously. Perhaps being conscientious was a family trait; he and his brother Mel always seemed to have that much in common. Anyway, when the duty was done-his final obligation finished-he would be free to go to the O'Hagan Inn, where he had registered late this afternoon. Once there, without wasting time, he would take the forty Nembutal capsules-sixty grains in all-which were in a drugstore pillbox in his pocket. He had husbanded the capsules, a few at a time, over recent months. They bad been prescribed to give him sleep, and from each prescription which Natalie's druggist had delivered, he had carefully extracted half and hidden it. A few days ago he had gone to a library, checking a reference book on clinical toxicology to assure himself that the quantity of Nembutal he had was well in excess of a fatal dose. His present duty shift would end at midnight. Soon after, when he had taken the capsules, sleep would come quickly and with finality. He looked at his watch, holding its face toward the light from outside. It was almost nine o'clock. Should he return to the radar room now? No-stay a few minutes longer. When he went, he wanted to be calm, his nerves steady for whatever these last few hours of duty might contain. Keith Bakersfeld fingered the O'Hagan Inn key again. Room 224. It was strange about the coincidence of figures; that his roorn number tonight, allocated by chance, should have in it a "24." There were people who believed in that kind of thing-numerology; the occult significance of numbers. Keith didn't, though if he did, those third and last figures, prefaced by a "T' could be taken to mean 24 for the second time. The first 24 had been a date, a year and a half ago. Keith's eyes misted, as they had so many times before, when he remembered. The date was seared-with selfreproach and anguish-in his memory. It was the wellspring of his darksome spirit, his utter desolation. It was the reason he would end his life tonight. A summer's day; morning. Thursday, June the twenty-fourth.
It was a (lay for poets, lovers, and color photographers; the kind of day which people stored up in their minds, to open like a scrapbook when they wanted to remember, years later, all that was best of any time and place. In Leesburg , Virginia , not far from historic Harpers Ferry , the sky was clear at dawn-CAVU, the weather reports said, which is aviation shorthand for 11 ceiling and visibility unlimited"; and conditions stayed that way, except for a few cotton-wool tufts of scattered cumulus by afternoon. The sun was warm, but not oppressive. A gentle breeze from the Blue Ridge Moun– tains carried the scent of honeysuckle. On his way to work that morning-driving to the Washington Air Route Traffic Control Center at Leesburg-Keith Bakersfeld had seen wild roses blooming. He thought of a line from Keats which he had learned in high school-"For Summer has o'erbrimmed It seemed appropriate to such a day. He had driven, as usual, across the Virginia border –from Adamstown, Maryland , where he and Natalie, with their two boys shared a pleasant rented home. The top of the Volkswagen convertible was down; he bad traveled without baste, enjoying the benevolence of air and sun, and when the familiar low, modern buildings of the Air Route Center came in sight, he had felt less tense than usual. Afterward, he wondered if that, in itself, had been a cause of the events which followed. Even inside the Operations Wing-thick-walled and

windowless, where daylight never penetrated-Keith had an impression that the glory of the summer's day outside had somehow percolated inward. Among the seventy or more shirtsleeved controllers on duty there seemed a sense of lightness, in contrast to the pressuredriven earnestness with which work proceeded on most days of the year. One reason, perhaps, was that the traffic load was less than usual, due to the exceptionally clear weather. Many non-commercial flights-private, military, even a few airliners-were operating on VFR –"visual flight rules," or the see-and-be-seen method by which aircraft pilots kept track of their own progress through the air, without need to report by radio to ATC air route controllers. The Washington Air Route Center at Leesburg was a key control point. From its main operations room aH air traffic on airways over six eastern seaboard states was observed and directed. Added up, the control area came to more than a hundred thousand square miles. Within that area, whenever an aircraft which had filed an instrument flight plan left an airport, it came under Leesburg observation and control. It remained under that control either until its journey was complete or it passed out of the area. Aircraft coming into the area were banded over from other control centers, of which there were twenty across the continental United States. The Leesburg center was among the nation's busiest. It included the southern end of the "northeast corridor" which daily accommodated the world's heaviest concentration of air traffic. Oddly, Leesburg was distant from any airport, and forty miles from Washington , D.C. , from which the Air Route Center took its name. The center itself was in Virginia countryside-a cluster of low, modem build– ings with a parking lot-and was surrounded on three sides by rolling farmland. Nearby was a small stream named Bull Run –its fame enshrined forever by two battles of the Civil War. Keith Bakersfeld had once gone to Bull Run after duty, reflecting on the strange and diametric contrast between Leesburg's past and present. This morning, despite awareness of the summer's day outside, everything in the spacious, cathedral-like main control room was operating as usual. The entire control area-larger than a football field-was, as always, dimly lighted to allow proper viewing of the several dozen radar screens, arranged in tiers and rows under overhanging canopies. The control room noise level was what any newcomer noticed first. From a flight data area, with great banks of computers, assorted electronic gear and automatic teletypes, arose the continuous whir and chatter of' machinery. Nearby, from dozens of positions where controllers sat, directing aerial traffic, came a ceaseless hum of voice radio exchanges on a host of frequencies. The machinery and human voices merged, producing a constant noise level which was all-pervading, yet strangely muted by acoustic, sound-absorbent walls and ceilings. Above the working level of the control room was an observation bridge, running the room's full width, where occasional visitors were brought to watch proceedings below. The control room activity looked, from this eyrie, not unlike that of a stock exchange. Controllers rarely glanced up at the bridge, being trained to ignore anything which might diminish concentration on their work, and since only a few especially privileged visitors ever made it to the control room floor, controllers and outsiders rarely met. Thus the work was not only high pressure, but also monastic-the last condition added to by the total absence of women. In an annex to the control room Keith slipped off his jacket, and came in wearing the crisp white shirt which was like a uniform for air traffic controllers. No one knew why controllers wore white shirts on duty; there was no rule about it, but most of them did. As he passed other control positions while heading for his own, a few colleagues wished him a friendly "good morning," and that was unusual too. Normally, the immediate sense of pressure on entering the control area made it customary to give a hurried nod or a brief "Hi! "-sometimes not even that. The control sector which Keith regularly worked comprised a segment of the Pittsburgh-Baltimore area.

The sector was monitored by a team of three. Keith was radar contioller, his job to maintain contact with aircraft and to issue radio instructions. Two assistant controllers handled flight data and airport communications; a supervisor coordinated activities of the other three. Today, in addition, the team had a trainee controller whom Keith had been instructing, at intervals, over the past several weeks. Others of the team were drifting in at the same time as Keith Bakersfeld, taking position behind the men they were to relieve, and allowing a few minutes while they absorbed the "picture" in their minds. All through the big control room, at other positions, the same thing was happening. Standing at his own sector, behind the radar controller about to go ofT duty, Keith already felt his mental acuity sharpen, his speed of thinking consciously accelerate. For the next eight hours, except for two brief work breaks, his brain must continue to operate that way. Traffic, he observed, was averagely busy for the time of day, taking into account the widespread good weather. On the scope's dark surface, some fifteen pinpoints of bright green light-or "targets," as radarmen called them-indicated aircraft in the air. Allegheny had a Convair 440 at eight thousand feet, approaching Pittsburgh . Behind the Allegheny Right, at varying altitudes, was a National DC-8, an American Airlines 727, two private aircraft-a Lear jet and a Fairchild F-27-and another National, this time a prop-jet Electra. Several other flights, Keith noted, were due to come on the screen at any moment, both from other sectors and as a result of takeoffs from Friendship Airport , Baltimore . Going the opposite way, toward Baltimore , was a Delta DC-9, about to be taken over by Friendship approach control; behind this flight were a TWA, a Piedmont Airlines Martin, another private flight, two Uniteds, and a Mohawk. Height and distance separations of all airCraft were satisfactory, Keith observed, except that the two Uniteds heading for Baltimore were a little close. As if the controller still at the scope had read Keith's mind, he gave the second United a delaying diversionary course. "I have the picture," Keith said quietly. The other controller nodded and moved out. Keith's supervisor, Perry Yount, plugged in his headset above Keith's head and leaned over, making his own assessment of the traffic situation. Perry was a tall, lean Negro, a few years younger than Keith. He had a quick, retentive memory which could store a mass of flight data, then repeat it back, as a whole or in pieces, with computer accuracy. Perry was a comforting man to have around when there was trouble. Keith had already accepted several new flights and handed over others when the supervisor touched his shoulder. "Keith, I'm running two positions this shiftthis and the next one. We're a man short. You okay for a while?" Keith nodded. "Roger." He radioed a course correction to an Eastern 727, then motioned toward the trainee controller, George Wallace, who had slipped into a seat beside him. "I've got George to keep an eye on me.), "Okay." Perry Yount unplugged his headset and moved to the adjacent console. The same kind of thing had happened occasionally before, and was handled without ditliculty. Perry Yount and Keith had worked together for several years; each was aware that he could trust the other. Keith told the trainee beside him, "George, start getting the picture." George Wallace nodded and edged closer to the radarscope. He was in his mid-twenties, had been a trainee for almost two years; before that, he had served an enlistment in the U. S. Air Force. Wallace had already shown himself to have an alert, quick mind, plus the ability not to become rattled under tension. In one more week he would be a qualified controller, though for practical purposes he was fully trained now. Deliberately, Keith allowed the spacing between an American Airlines BAC-400 and a National 727 to become les-, than it should be; he was ready to transmit

quick instructions if the closure became critical. George Wallace spotted the condition at once, and warned Keith, who corrected it. That kind of firsthand exercise was the only sure way the ability of a new controller could be gauged. Similarly, when a trainee was at the scope himself, and got into difficulties, he had to be given the chance to show resourcefulness and sort the situation out unaided. At such moments, the instructing controller was obliged to sit back, with clenched hands, and sweat. Someone had once described it as, "hanging on a brick wall by your fingernails." When to intervene or take over was a critical decision, not to be made too early or too late. If the instructor did take over, the trainee's confidence might be permanently undermined, and a potentially good controller lost. On the other hand, if an instructor failed to take over when he should, a ghastly mid-air collision could result. The risks involved, and extra mental pressures, were such that many controllers refused to take them. They pointed out that the task of teaching their work to others carried neither official recognition nor extra pay. Moreover, if anything went wrong, the instructing controller was wholly responsible. Why suffer so much strain and liability for nothing? Keith, however, had shown an aptitude as an instructor as well as patience in bringing trainees along. And although he, too, suffered and sweated at times, he did the job because he felt he should. At this moment, he took a personal pride in the way George Wallace had developed. Wallace said quietly again, "I'd turn United 284 right until you get altitude separation with Mohawk." Keith nodded agreement as he thumbed his microphone button. "United Flight 284, from Washington center. Turn right, heading zero six zero." Promptly the reply crackled back. " Washington control, this is United 284. Roger; zero six zero." Miles distant, and high above in clear bright sunshine while passengers dozed or read, the powerful sleek jet would be easing intoL a smooth controlled turn. On the radar– scope, the bright green half inch wide blip which was United 284 began moving in a new direction. Below the control area, in a room devoted to rack upon rack of ponderously turning tape recorders, the exchange between ground and air had been recordedfor playback later if need arose. Every such conversa– tion, from each position in the control room, was recorded and stored. Periodically, some of the tapes were replayed and listened to critically by supervisors. If a procedure was wrong, a controller heard about it; yet no controller knew when a recording of his own might be selected for analysis. On a door of the tape-recorder room was the grimly humorous reminder, "Big Brother Is Listening." The morning progressed. Periodically, Perry Yount appeared. He was still overseeing two positions and stayed long enough to assess the current traffic situation. What he saw seemed to satisfy him, and he spent less time behind Keith than at the other position, where several problems seemed to be occurring. Around mid-morning the air traffic volume eased slightly; it would pick up again before midday. Soon after 10:30 A.m. Keith Bakersfeld and George Wallace exchanged positions. The trainee was now at the scope, Keith checking from alongside. There was no need, Keith found, for intervention; young Wallace was proving competent and alert. As far as was possible in the circumstances, Keith relaxed. At ten to eleven, Keith was aware of a need to visit the toilet. In recent months, he had had several bouts with intestinal flu; he had a suspicion that this was the beginning of another. He signaled Perry Yount and told him. The supervisor nodded. "Is George doing okay?" "Like a veteran." Keith said it loud enough so George could hear. "I'll hold things down," Perry said. "You're relieved, Keith.»
«Thanks." Keith signed the sector log sheet and noted his time of checking out. Perry scribbled an initial on the next

line of the log, accepting responsibility for monitoring Wallace. In a few minutes time, when Keith returned, they would follow the same procedure. As Keith Bakersfeld left the control room, the supervisor was studying the scope, his han.d lightly on George Wallace's shoulder. The washroom Keith had gone to was on an upper level; a frosted-glass window admitted some of the brightness of the day outside. When Keith had finished, and freshened himself with a wash, he went to the window and opened it. He wondered if the weather was still as superb as when he had arrived earlier. It was. From the rear of the building into which the window was set, he could see-beyond a service area-green meadows, trees, and wild flowers. The heat was greater now. All around was a drowsy hum of insects. Keith stood looking out, aware of a reluctance to leave the cheerful sunlight and return to the control room's gloom. It occurred to him that lately he had had similar feelings at other times-too many times, perhaps; and he thought-if he was honest, it was not the gloom he minded so much, but the mental pressures. There was a time when the tensions and pressures of his job, unrelenting as they were, had never bothered him. Nowadays they did, and on occasions he had to force himself, consciously, to meet them.
While Keith Bakersfeld was standing at the window, thinking, a Northwest Orient 727 jet, en route from Minneapolis-St. Paul, was nearing Washington , D.C. Within its cabin a stewardess was bending over an elderly male passenger. His face was ashen; he seemed unable to speak. The stewardess believed he had had, or was having, a heart attack. She hurried to the flight deck to inform the captain. Moments later, acting on the captain's orders, the Northwest first officer asked Washington Air Route Center for special clearance down, with priority handling to Washington National Airport.
Keith wondered sometimes-as he was wondering now-how many more years he could force his occa– sionally weary mind to go on. He had been a controller for a decade and a half. He was thirty-eight. The depressing thing was-in this business you could be mentally drained, an old man, at age forty-five or fifty, yet honorable retirement was another ten or fifteen years away. For many air traffic controllers, those final years proved an all-too-grueling trail, whose end they failed to reach. Keith knew-as most controllers did-that strains on the human systems of those employed in air traffic control had long been recognized. Official flight surgeons' files bulged with medical evidence. Case histories, directly attributable to controllers' work, included hypertension, heart attacks, gastric ulcers, tachycardia, psychiatric breakdowns, plus a host of lesser ailments. Eminent, independent medics, in scholarly research studies, had confirmed such findings. In the words of one: "A controller will spend nervous, sleepless hours every night wondering how in the name of heaven he kept all those planes from running into each other. He managed not to cause a disaster today, but will he have the same luck tomorrow? After a while, something inside him-physical, mental, oftentimes both-inevitably breaks down." Armed with this knowledge, and more, the Federal Aviation Agency had urged Congress to allow air traffic controllers to retire at age fifty, or after twenty years of service. The twenty years, doctors declared, were equal to forty in most other jobs. The FAA warned legislators: public safety was involved; controllers, after more than twenty years of service, were potentially unsafe. Congress, Keith remembered, had ignored the warning and refused to act. Subsequently, a Presidential Commission also turned thumbs down on early retirement for controllers, and the FAA-then a presidential agency-had been told to cease and desist in its argument. Now, officially, it had. Privately, however-as Keith and others knew-Washington FAA officials were as convinced as ever; they predicted that the question would arise again, though

only after an air disaster, or a series, involving wom-out controllers, followed by press and public furor. Keith's thoughts switched back to the countryside. It was glorious today; the fields inviting, even when viewed from a washroom window. He wished he could go out there and sleep in the sun. Well, he couldn't, and that was that. He supposed he had better get back to the control room. He would-in just a moment more.
The Northwest Orient 727 had already started down, on authority from Washington Center . At lower altitudes, other flights were being hurriedly diverted, or ordered to orbit, safe distances away. A slanting hole, through which Northwest would continue descending, was being cleared in the growing midday traffic. Approach control at Washington National Airport had been alerted; its function would come shortly when it accepted the Northwest jet from Washington Center . At this moment, responsibility for the Northwest flight and other aircraft devolved on the sector team next to Keith's-the extra sector which the young Negro, Perry Yount, was supervising. Fifteen aircraft with combined speeds totaling seven thousand five hundred miles per hour were being juggled in an airspace a few miles wide. No airplane must come near another. The Northwest flight must be brought down, safely, through them all. Similar situations happened several times a day; in bad weather it could be several times an hour. Sometimes emergencies came together, so that controllers numbered them-emergency one, emergency two, emergency three. In the present situation, as always, Perry Yountquiet-spoken, cool, and capable-was responding with experienced skill. Working with others in the sector team, he was coordinating emergency procedurescalmly, level voiced, so that from his tone no bystander listening would be aware that an emergency existed. Other aircraft could not hear transmissions to the Northwest flight, which had been instructed to switch to a separate radio frequency. Everything was going well. The Northwest flight was steady on course, descending. In a few minutes, the emergency situation would be over. Amid the pressures, Perry Yount even found time to slip across to the adjoining position-which normally would have his undivided attention-to check George Wallace. Everything looked good, though Perry knew he would be easier in mind when Keith Bakersfeld was back. He glanced toward the control room door. No sign of Keith yet.
Keith-still at the open window, still looking out at the Virginia countryside-was remembering Natalie. He sighed. Lately, there had been disagreements between them, triggered by his work. There were points of view which his wife could or would not see. Natalie was concerned about Keith's health. She wanted him to give up air traffic control; to quit, and choose some other occupation while some of his youth and most of his health remained. It had been a mistake, he realized now, to confide his doubts to Natalie, to describe what he had seen happen to other controllers whose work had made them prematurely old and ailing. Natalie had become alarmed, perhaps with reason. But there were considerations to giving up a job, walking away from years of training and experience; considerations which it was hard for Natalie-or for any woman, he supposed-to grasp.
Over Martinsburg , West Virginia –some thirty miles northwest of Washington Route Center –a private, four-place Beech Bonanza, at seven thousand feet, was leaving Airway V166 and entering Airway V44. The little Beech Bonanza, identifiable visually by its butterfly tail, was cruising at 175 mph , its destination Baltimore . It contained the Redfern family: Irving Redfern, a consulting engineer-economist, his wife Merry, and their two children-Jeremy, ten years old, and Valerie, nine. Irving Redfern was a careful, thorough man. Today, because of favorable weather conditions, he could have flown using visual flight rules. However, he considered it

more prudent to file an instrument flight plan and, since leaving his home airport of Charleston , West Virginia , had stayed on airways, remaining in touch with air traffic control. A few moments earlier, Washington Route Center had given him a new course on Airway V44. He had alreadv turned on it and now his magnetic compass, which had been swinging slightly, was settling down nicely. The Reelferns were going to Baltimore partly for Irving Redfern's business, and partly for pleasure, which would include a family theatre outing tonight. While their father was concentrating on his flying, the children, with Merry, were chattering about what they would have for lunch at Friendship Airport . The Washington Center controller who had given Irving Redfern his latest instructions was George Wallace, the almost-qualified trainee still filling in for Keith Bakersfeld. George had correctly identified the Redferns' Beechcraft on his radarscope, where it appeared as a bright green dot, though smaller and moving more slowly than most other traffic-at the moment principally airline jets. There was nothing closing up on the Beechcraft, however, which appeared to have plenty of airspace all around it. Perry Yount, the sector supervisor, had by now returned to the adjoining position. He was helping sort out the aftermath confusion now that the critical Northwest Orient 727 had been handed over safely to Washington National Airport approach control. Periodically, Perry glanced across at George and once called out, "Is everything okay?" George Wallace nodded, though he was beginning to sweat a little. Today's heavier noontime traffic seemed to be building up earlier than usual. Unknown to George Wallace or Perry Yount or Irving Redfern, an Air National Guard T-33 jet trainer was flying-at the moment idly in circles-a few miles north of Airway V44. The T-33 was from Martin Airport , near Baltimore, and its National Guard pilot was an automobile salesman named Hank Neel. Lieutenant Neel, who was fulfilling his part-time military training requirements, had been sent up solo for YFR proficiency flying. Because he had been cautioned to do only local flying in an authorized area northwest of Baltimore , no flight plan had been filed,– therefore, Washington Air Route Center had no knowledge that the T-33 was in the air. This would not have mattered except that Neel had become bored with his assignment and was also a careless pilot. Looking out casually, as he held the jet trainer in lazy circles, he realized he had drifted south while practicing maneuvers, though in reality he had come a good deal farther than he imagined. He was so far south that several minutes ago the National Guard jet had entered George Wallace's radar control area and now appeared on Wallace's screen at Leesburg as a green dot, slightly larger than the Redfern family's Beech Bonanza. A more experienced controller would have recognized the dot instantly for what it was. George, however, still busy with other traffic, had not yet observed the extra, unidentified signal. Lieutenant Neel, at fifteen thousand feet, decided he would finish his flying practice with some aerobaticstwo loops, a couple of slow rolls-and then return to base. He swung the T-33 into a steep turn and circled again while he took the standard precaution of looking for other airplanes above and below. He was now even closer than before to Airway V44.
The thing his wife failed to realize, Keith Bakersfeld thought, was that a man couldn't just quit his job irresponsibly, on a whim, even if he wanted to. Especially when the man had a family to support, children to educate. Especially when the job you possessed, the skills you so patiently acquired, had fitted you for nothing else. In some branches of government service, employees could leave and utilize their proficiency elsewhere. Air Traffic controllers could not. Their work had no counterpart in private industry; no one else wanted them. Being trapped that way-which was what it amounted to, Keith recognized-was a disillusion which came with other disillusions. Money was one. When you were young, enthusiastic, wanting to be a part of avia– tion, the civil service pay scale of an air traffic controller seemed adequate or better. Only later did it become clear how inadequate-in relation to the job's awesome responsibility-that pay scale was. The two most skillful specialists involved in air traffic nowadays were pilots and controllers. Yet pilots earned thirty thousand dollars a year while a senior controller reached his ceiling at ten thousand. No one believed pilots should earn less. But even pilots, who were notoriously selfish in taking care of themselves, believed air traffic controllers should earn more. Nor was promotion-as in most other occupationssomething an air traffic controller could look forward to. Senior supervisory posts were few; only a fortunate handful ever attained them. And yet . . . unless you were reckless or uncaringwhich controllers, by the nature of their work, were not –there was no way out. So there would be no quitting for himself, Keith decided. He must have another talk with Natalie; it was time she accepted that for better or worse, it was too late for change. He had no intention, at this stage, of scratching inadequately for some other kind of living. He really must go back. Glancing at his watch, he realized guiltily that it was almost fifteen minutes since he left the control room. For part of the time he had been daydreaming-something he rarely did, and it was obviously the somniferous effect of the summer's day. Keith closed the washroom window. From the corridor outside, he hurried downward to the main control room.
High over Frederick County, Maryland, Lieutenant Neel straightened up his National Guard T-33 and eased on forward trim. Neel had completed his some– what casual inspection and had seen no other aircraft. Now, beginning his first loop and slow roll, he put the jet trainer into a steep dive.
Entering the control room, Keith Bakersfeld was aware at once of an increased tempo. The hum of voices was louder than when he left. Other controllers were too preoccupied to glance up-as they had done earlier this morning-as he passed by them on the way to his own position. Keith scribbled a signature in the sector log and noted the time, then moved behind George Wallace, getting the picture, letting his eyes adjust to the control room semidarkness, in sharp contrast to the bright sunlight outside. George had murmured "Hi!" as Keith returned, then continued transmitting radio instructions to traffic. In a moment or two, when Keith had the picture, he would relieve George and slip into his seat. It had probably been good for George, Keith reasoned, to be on his own for a while; it would improve his confidence. From the adjoining sector console, Perry Yount had noted Keith's return. Keith studied the radarscope and its moving pinpoints of light-the aircraft "targets" which George had identified, then noted on small movable markers on the screen. A bright green dot without identification caught Keith's eye. He asked George sharply, "What's the other traffic near the Beech Bonanza 403?"
Lieutenant Neel had finished his first loop and slow roll. He had climbed back to fifteen thousand feet, and was still over Frederick County, though a little farther south. He leveled the T-33 jet, then put the nose down sharply and began a dive into a second loop.
"What other traffic . . . T' George Wallace's eyes followed Keith's across the radarscope. He gasped; then in a strangled voice-"My God!" With a swift, single movement, Keith ripped the radio headset from George and shouldered him aside. Keith flung a frequency switch open, snapped a transmit button down. "Beech Bonanza NC-403, this is Washington Center. There is unidentified traffic to your left. Make an immediate right turn now!"
The National Guard T-33 was at the bottom of its dive. Lieutenant Neel pulled the control column back and, with full power on, began a fast, steep climb. Immediately above was the tiny Beech Bonanza, con– taining Irving Redfern and his family, cruising steadily on Airway V44.
In the control room … breathlessly … silently … praying hard … they watched the closing, bright green dots. The radio crackled with a burst of static. "Washington Center, this is Beech Abruptly the transmission stopped.
Irving Redfern was a consulting engineer-economist. He was a competent amateur pilot, but not a commercial one. An airline pilot, receiving the Washington Center message, would have flung his aircraft instantly into a steep right turn. He would have caught the urgency in Keith's voice, would have acted, without waiting to trim, or acknowledge, or-until later-question. An airline pilot would have ignored all minor consequences except the overriding urgency of escaping the nearby peril which the route center message unmistakably implied. Behind him, in the passenger cabin, scalding cobFee might have spilled, meals scattered, even minor injuries resulted. Later there would have been complaints, apol– ogies, denunciations, perhaps a Civil Aeronautics Board inquiry. But-with ordinary luck-there could have been survival. Quick action could have insured it. It would have insured it for the Redfern family, too. Airline pilots were conditioned by training and usage, to swift, sure reflexes. Irving Redfern was not. He was a precise, scholarly man, accustomed to think before acting, and to following correct procedures. His first thought was to acknowledge the Washington Center message. Thus, he used up two or three seconds-all the time he had. The National Guard T-33, swooping upward from the bottom of its loop, struck the Redferns' Beech Bonanza on the left side, slicing off the private aircraft's port wing with a single screeching rip of metal. The T-33, mortally damaged itself, continued upward briefly while its forward section disintegrated. Scarcely knowing what was happening-he had caught only the briefest glimpse of the other plane-Lieutenant Neel ejected and waited for his parachute to open. Far below, out of control and spinning crazily, the Beechcraft Bonanza, with the Redfern family still inside, was plummeting to earth.
Keith's hands were trembling as he tried again. "Beech Bonanza NC-403, this is Washington Center. Do you read?" Beside Keith, George Wallace's lips moved silently. His face was drained of color. As they watched in horror, the dots on the radarscope converged, blossomed suddenly, then faded. Perry Yount, aware of something wrong, bad joined them. "What is it?" Keith's mouth was dry. "I think we've had a mid-air." It was then it happened: the nightmarish sound which those who heard it wished that they had not, yet afterward would not be able to erase from memory.
In the pilot's seat of the doomed, spinning Beech Bonanza, Irving Redfern-perhaps involuntarily, perhaps as a last despairing act-pressed the transmit button of his microphone and held it down. The radio still worked.
At Washington Center, the transmission was heard on a console speaker which Keith had switched in when his emergency transmissions began. At first there was a burst of static, then immediately a succession of piercing, frantic, chilling screams. Elsewhere in the control room, heads turned. Faces nearby paled. George Wallace was sobbing hysterically. Senior supervisors came hurrying from other sections. Suddenly, above the screaming clearly, a single voice –terrified, forlorn, beseeching. At first, not every word was audible. Only later, when the tape recording of the last transmission was played and replayed many times, were the full words put together, the voice identified as that of Valerie Redfern, nine years old. ". . . Mummy! Daddy! . . . Do something! I don't

want to die … Oh, Gentle Jesus, I've been good . . . Please, I don't want. . ." Mercifully, the transmission stopped. The Beech Bonanza crashed and burned near the village of Lisbon, Maryland. What remained from the four bodies was unrecognizable and was buried in a common grave. Lieutenant Neel landed safely by parachute, five miles away.
AH three controllers involved in the tragedy-George Wallace, Keith Bakersfeld, Perry Yount-were at once suspended from duty, pending investigation. Later, the trainee, George Wallace, was held technically not to blame, since he was not a qualified controller when the accident occurred. He was, however, dismissed from government service and barred forever for further employment in air traffic control. The young Negro supervisor, Perry Yount, was held wholly responsible. The investigating board-taking days and weeks to play back tapes, examine evidence, and review decisions which Yount himself bad had to make in seconds, under pressure-decided be should have spent less time on the emergency involving the Northwest Orient 727 and more in supervising George Wallace during the absence of Keith Bakersfeld. The fact that Perry Yount was doing double duty-which, had he been less cooperative, he could have refusedwas ruled not relevant. Yount was officially reprimanded, and reduced in civil service grade. Keith Bakersfeld was totally exonerated. The investigating board was at pains to point out that Keith had requested to be temporarily relieved from duty, that his request was reasonable, and he followed regulations in signing out and in. Furthermore, immediately on return, he perceived the possibility of a mid-air collision and tried to prevent it. For his quick thinking and actionthough the attempt was unsuccessful-he was commended by the board. The question of the length of Keith's absence from the control room did not arise initially. Near the end of '
the investigation-perceiving the way things were going for Perry Yount-Keith attempted to raise it himself, and to accept the major share of blame. His attempt was treated kindly, but it was clear that the investigating board regarded it as a chivalrous gesture-and no more. Keith's testimony, once its direction became clear, was cut off summarily. His attempted intervention was not referred to in the board's final report. An independent Air National Guard inquiry produced evidence that Lieutenant Henry Neel had been guilty of contributory negligence in failing to remain in the vicinity of Middletown Air Base, and for allowing his T-33 to drift near Airway V44. However, since his actual position could not be proved conclusively, no charges were preferred. The lieutenant went on selling automobiles, and flying during weekends. On learning of the investigating board's decision, the supervisor, Perry Yount, suffered a nervous collapse. He was hospitalized and placed under psychiatric care. He appeared to be moving toward recovery when he received by mail, from an anonymous source, a printed bulletin of a California rightwing group opposing among other things-Negro civil rights. The bulletin contained a viciously biased account of the Redfern tragedy. It portrayed Perry Yount as an incompetent, bumbling dullard, indifferent to his responsibilities, and uncaring about the Redfern family's death. The entire incident, the bulletin argued, should be a warning to "bleeding heart liberals" who aided Negroes in attaining responsible positions for which they were not mentally equipped. A "housecleaning" was urged of other Negroes employed in air traffic control, "before the same thing happens again." At any other time, a man of Perry Yount's intelligence would have dismissed the bulletin as a maniacal diatribe, which it was. But because of his condition, he suffered a relapse after reading it, and might have remained under treatment indefinitely if a government review board had not refused to pay hospital bills for his care, maintaining that his mental illness had not been caused through government employment. Yount was discharged from the hospital but did not return to air traffic control. When Keith Bakersfeld last heard of him, he was working in a Baltimore waterfront bar, and drinking heavily. George Wallace disappeared from sight. There were rumors that the former trainee controller had re-crilisted –in the U. S. Army Infantry, not the Air Force-and was now in serious trouble with the Military Police. According to stories, Wallace repeatedly started fist fights and brawls in which he appeared to go out of his way to bring physical punishment on himself. The rumors were not confirmed. For Keith Bakersfeld, it seemed for a while as if life would go on as usual. When the investigation ended, his temporary suspension was lifted; his qualifications and government service rating remained intact. He returned to wor~ at Leesburg. Colleagues, aware that Keith's experience could easily have been their own, were friendly and sympathetic. His work, at first, went well enough. After his abortive attempt to raise the subject before the investigating board, Keith confided to no one-not even to Natalie-the fact of his washroom loitering that fateful day. Yet the secret knowledge was seldom far from the forefront of his mind. At home, Natalie was understanding and, as always, loving. She sensed that Keith had undergone a traumatic shock from which he would need time to recover, and she attempted to meet his moods-to talk or be animated when he felt like it, to stay silent when he did not. In quiet, private sessions Natalie explained to the boys, Brian and Theo, why they, too, should show consideration for their father. In an abstracted way, Keith understood and appreciated what Natalie was trying to do. Her method might eventually have succeeded, except for one thing-an air traffic controller needed sleep. Keith was getting little sleep and, some nights, none. On the occasions he did sleep, he had a persistent dream in which the scene in the Washington Center control roorn, moments before the mid-air collision, was re-created the merging pinpoints of light on the radarscope Keith's last desperate message . . . the screams; the voice oflittle Valerie Redfern … Sometimes the dream had variations. When Keith tried to move toward the radarscope to seize George Wallace's radio headset and transmit a warning, Keith's limbs resisted, and would change position only with frustrating slowness, as if the air surrounding them were heavy sludge. His mind warned frantically: If he could only move freely, the tragedy could be averted. . . . Although his body strained and fought, be always reached his goal too late. At other times he attained the headset, but his voice would fail. He knew that if he could articulate words, a warning would suffice, the situation could be saved. His mind would race, his lungs and larynx strain, but no sound came. But evert with variations, the dream always ended the same way-with the Beech Bonanza's last radio transmission as he heard it so many times during the inquiry, on the played-back tape. And afterward, with Natalie asleep beside him, he would lie awake, thinking, remembering, longing for the impossible-to change the shape of things past. Later still, he would resist sleep, fighting for wakefulness, so he would not endure the torture of the dream again. It was then that in the loneliness of night, his conscience would remind him of the stolen, wasted minutes in the route center washroom; crucial minutes when he could have returned to duty, and should have done, but through idleness and self-concern had failed to do so. Keith knew-as others did not-that the real responsibility for the Redfern tragedy was his own, not Perry Yount's. Perry had been a circumstantial sacrifice, a technical victim. Perry had been Keith's friend, had trusted Keith that day to be conscientious, to come back to the control room as quickly as he could. Yet Keith, though knowing his friend was standing double duty, aware of the extra pressures on him, had been twice as long as he needed to be, and had let Perry down; so in the end, Perry Yount stood accused and convicted in Keith's place.

Perry for Keith-a sacrificial goat. But Perry, though grievously wronged, was still alive. The Redfern family was dead. Dead because Keith doodled mentally, dallying in the sunshine, leaving a semi experienced trainee too long with responsibilities which were rightly Keith's, and for which Keith was better qualified. There could be no question that had he returned sooner, he would have spotted the intruding T33 long before it neared the Redferns' plane. The proof was that he had spotted it when he did return-too late to be of use. Around and around … over and over in the night … as if committed to a treadmill … Keith's mind labored on, self-torturing, sick with grief, recrimination. Eventually he would sleep from exhaustion, usually to dream, and to awake again. In daytime, as well as night, the memory of the Redferns persisted. Irving Redfern, his wife, their children –though Keith had never known them-haunted him. ne presence of Keith's own children, Brian and Theo –alive and well-appeared a personal reproach. Keith's own living, breathing, seemed to him an accusation. The effect of sleepless nights, the mental turmoil, showed quickly in his work. His reactions were slow, decisions hesitant. A couple of times, under pressure, Keith "lost the picture" and had to be helped. Afterward he realized he had been under close surveillance. His superiors knew from experience what might happen, had half-expected some such signs of strain. Informal, friendly talks followed, in upper-level offices, which achieved nothing. Later, on a suggestion from Washington , and with Keith's consent, he was transferred from the East Coast to the Midwest –to Lincoln International for control tower duty. A change of locale, it was believed, would prove therapeutic. Officialdom, with a touch of humanity, was also aware that Keith's older brother, Mel, was general manager at Lincoln ; perhaps Mel Bakersfeld's influence would be steadying too. Natalie, though loving Maryland , made the transition without complaint. The idea hadn't worked. Keith's sense of guilt persisted; so did the nightmares, which grew, and took on other patterns, though always the basic one remained. He slept only with the aid of barbiturates prescribed by a physician friend of Mel's. Mel understood part of his brother's problem, but not all; Keith still kept the secret knowledge of his washroom dawdling at Leesburg solely to himself. Later, watching Keith's deterioration, Mel urged him to seek psychiatric help, but Keith refused. His reasoning was simple. Why should he seek some panacea, some ritualistic mumbo-jumbo to insulate his guilt, when the guilt was real, when nothing in heaven or earth or clinical psychiatry could ever change it? Keith's dejection deepened until even Natalie's resilient nature rebelled against his moods. Though aware that he slept badly, Natalie had no knowledge of his dreams. One day she inquired in anger and impatience, "Are we supposed to wear hair shirts for the rest of our lives? Are we never to have fun again, to laugh the way we used to? If you intend to go on this way, you'd better understand one thing-1 don't, and I won't let Brian and Theo grow up around this kind of misery either." When Keith hadn't answered, Natalie went on, "I've told you before: our lives, our marriage, the children, are more important than your work. If you can't take that kind of work any more-and why should you if it's that demanding?-then give it up now, get something else. I know what you always tell me: the money'll be less; you'd throw away your pension. But that isn't everything; we'd manage somehow. I'll take all the hardship you can give me, Keith Bakersfeld, and maybe I'd complain a little, but not much, because anything would be better than the way we are right now." She had been close to tears, but managed to finish. "I'm warning you I can't take much more. If you're going on like this, it may have to be alone." It was the only time Natalie had hinted at the possibility of their marriage breaking up. It was also the first time Keith considered suicide. Later, his idea hardened to resolve.

The door of the darkened locker room opened. A switch snapped on. Keith was back again in the control tower at Lincoln International, blinking in the overhead light's glare. Another tower controller, taking his own work break, was coming in. Keith put away his untouched sandwiches, closed his locker, and walked back toward the radar room. The other man glanced at him curiously. Neither spoke. Keith wondered if the crisis involving the Air Force KC-135, which had had radio failure, had ended yet. Chances were, it had; that the aircraft and its crew had landed safely. He hoped so. He hoped that something good, for someone, would survive this night. As he went in, he touched the O'Hagan Inn key in his pocket to be sure, once again, that it was there. He would need it soon. 4
It was almost an hour since Tanya Livingston had left Mel Bakersfeld in the central lobby of the main terminal. Even now, though other incidents had intervened, she remembered the way their hands touched at the elevator, the tone he used when he had said, "It'll give me a reason to see you again tonight." Tanya hoped very much that Mel remembered too, and-though she was aware he had to go downtownthat he would find time to stop by first. The "reason" Mel referred to-as if he needed one –was his curiosity about the message received by Tanya while in the coffee shop. "There's a stowaway on night 80," a Trans America agent had told her. "They're calling for you," and "the way I hear it, this one's a dilly." The agent had already been proved right. Tanya was once more in the small, private lounge behind the Trans America check-in counters where earlier this evening she had comforted the distraught young ticket agent, Patsy Smith. But now, instead of Patsy, Tanya faced the tittle old lady from San Diego. "You've done this before," Tanya said. "Haven't you?" "Oh yes, my dear. Quite a few times." The little old lady sat comfortably relaxed, hands folded daintily in her lap, a wisp of lace handkerchief showing between them. She was dressed primly in black, with an old-fashioned high-necked blouse, and might have been somebody's great-grandmother on her way to church. Instead she had been caught riding illegally, without a ticket, between Los Angeles and New York. There had been stowaways, Tanya recalled reading somewhere, as long ago as 700 B.C., on ships of the Phoenicians which plied the eastern Mediterranean. At that time, the penalty for those who were caught was excruciating death-disembowelment of adult stowaways, while children were burned alive on sacrificial stones. Since then, penalties had abated, but stowaways had not. Tanya wondered if anyone, outside a limited circle of airline employees, realized how much of a stowaway epidemic there had been since jet airplanes increased the tempo and pressures of passenger aviation. Probably not. Airlines worked hard to keep the whole subject under wraps, fearing that if the facts became known, their contingent of nonpaying riders would be greater still. But there were people who realized how simple it all could be, including the little old lady from San Diego. Her name was Mrs. Ada Ouonsett. Tanya had checked this fact from a Social Security card, and Mrs. Quonsett would undoubtedly have reached New York undetected if she had not made one mistake. This was confiding her status to her seat companion, who told a stewardess. The stewardess reported to the captain, who

radioed ahead, and a ticket agent and security guard were waiting to remove the little old lady at Lincoln International. She had been brought to Tanya, part of whose job as passenger relations agent was to deal with such stowaways as the airline was lucky enough to catch. Tanya smoothed her tight, trim uniform skirt in the gesture which had become a habit. "All right," she said, "I think you'd better tell me about it." The older woman's hands unfolded and the lace handkerchief changed position slightly. "Well, you see, I'm a widow and I have a married daughter in New York. Sometimes I get lonely and want to visit her. So what I do is go to Los Angeles and get on an airplane that's goin g to New York.»
«Just like that? Without a ticket." Mrs. Quonsett seemed shocked. "Oh, my dear, I couldn't possibly afford a ticket. I just have Social Security and this small pension my late husband left. It's all I can do to manage the bus fare from San Diego to Los Angeles.»
«You do pay on the bus?" "Oh, yes. The Greyhound people are very strict. I once tried buying a ticket to the first stop up the line, then staying on. But they make a check at every city, and the driver found my ticket wasn't good. They were quite unpleasant about it. Not like the airlines at all.»
«I'm curious," Tanya said, "why you don't use San Diego airport.»
«Well, I'm afraid, my dear, they know me there.»
«You mean you've been caught at San Diego?" The little old lady inclined her head. "Yes.»
«Have you been a stowaway on other airlines? Besides ours?" "Oh, yes. But I like Trans America best." Tanya was trying hard to remain severe, though it was difficult when the conversation sounded as if they were discussing a stroll to the comer store. But she kept her face impassive as she asked, "Why do you like Trans America, Mrs. Quonsett?" "Well, they're always so reasonable in New York. When I've stayed with my daughter a week or two, and I'm ready to go home, I go to your airline offices and tell them.»
«You ten them the truth? That you came to New York as a stowaway?" "That's right, my dear. They ask me the date and the flight number-I always write it down so I'll remember. Then they look up some papers.»
«The flight manifest," Tanya said. She wondered: was this conversation real or just imagination. "Yes, dear, I think that's what it's called.»
«Please go on." The little old lady looked surprised. "There isn't anything else. After that, they just send me home. Usually the same day, on one of your airplanes.»
«And that's everything? Nothing else is said?" Mrs. Quonsett gave a gentle smile, as she might have done at a vicarage afternoon tea. "Well, I do sometimes get a little scolding. I'm told I've been naughty, and not to do it again. But that really isn't much, is it?" "No," Tanya said. "It certainly isn't," The incredible thing, Tanya realized, was that it was all so obviously true. As airlines were aware, it happened frequently. A would-be stowaway merely boarded an airplane-there were plenty of ways it could be done –and sat quietly, waiting for departure. As long as the stowaway stayed away from the first class compartment, where passengers could be identified easily, and unless the flight was full, detection was unlikely. It was true that stewardesses would count heads, and their tally might disagree with the gate agent's manifest. At that point a stowaway would be suspected, but the agent in charge would be faced with two choices. Either be could let the airplane go, recording on the manifest that the head and ticket counts did not agree, or a recheck could be made of the tickets of everyone aboard. A recheck, if decided on, would take most of half an hour; meanwhile, the cost of holding a six-million-dollar jet airplane on the ground would soar. Schedules, both at origin and down tile line, would be disrupted. Passengers with connections to make, or appointments, would grow angrily impatient, while the captain, conscious of his punctuality record, would fume at the agent. The agent would~ reason that he might have made a mistake anyway; moreover, unless he could show good reason for a delay, he would get a roasting later on from his District Transportation Manager. In the end, even if a stowaway was found, the loss in dollars and goodwill would far exceed the cost of providing a free ride for a single individual. So what happened was that the airline did the only sensible thing-it closed the doors, and sent the airplane on its way. That was usually the end of it. Once in flight, stewardesses were too busy to do a ticket check, and passengers would certainly not submit to the delay and annoyance of one at journey's end. Therefore the stowaway walked off, unquestioned and unhindered. What the little old lady had told Tanya about returning was just as accurate. Airlines took the view that stowaway incidents should not happen and, when they did, it was their own fault for failing to prevent them. On the same basis, airlines accepted responsibility for insuring that stowaways were returned to their point of origin and-since there was no other way to convey them-offenders went back in regular seats, getting normal service, including airline meals. "You're qice, too," Mrs. Ouonsett said. "I can always tell nice people when I meet them. But you're a lot younger than the others in the airline-those I get to meet, I mean.»
«You mean the ones who deal with cheats and stowaways.»
«That's fight." The little old lady seemed unabashed. Her eyes moved appraisingly. "I should say you're twenty-eight." Tanya said shortly, "Thirty-seven.»
«Well, you have a young mature look. Perhaps it comes from being married.»
«Come off it," Tanya said. "That isn't going to help you.,, "But you are married.»
«I was. I'm not now.»
«Such a pity. You could have beautiful children. With red hair like your own." Red hair, perhaps, but not with the beginnings of gray, Tanya thought-the gray she had noticed again this morning. As to children, she might have explained that she did have a child, who was at home in their apartment and, she hoped, asleep. Instead, she addressed Mrs. Ada Quonsett sternly. "What you've done is dishonest. You've defrauded; you've broken the law. I suppose you realize you can be prosecuted." For the first time, a gleam of triumph crossed the older woman's innocent face. "But I won't be, will I? They never do prosecute anybody." There was really no point in continuing, Tanya thought. She knew perfectly well, and so apparently did Mrs. Quonsett, that airlines never prosecuted stowaways, on the theory that publicity would be more harmful than otherwise. There was just a chance, though, that some more questions might produce information useful in the future. "Mrs. Quonsett," Tanya said, "since you've had so much free travel from Trans America, the least you can do is help us a tittle.»
«I'll be glad to if I can.»
«What I'd like to know is how you get aboard our flights.» The little old lady smiled. "Well, my dear, there are quite a few ways. I try to use different ones as much as I can.»
«Please tell me about them.»
«Well, most times I try to be at the airport early enough so I can get myself a boarding pass.»
«Isn't that difficult to do?" "Getting a boarding pass? Oh, no; it's very easy. Nowadays airlines use their ticket folders as passes. So I go to one of the counters and say I've lost my ticket folder, and please may I have another. I pick a counter where

the clerks are busy, with a lot of people waiting. They always give me one." Naturally they would, Tanya thought. It was a normal request which occurred frequently. Except that, unlike Mrs. Quonsett, most people wanted a fresh ticket folder for a legitimate reason. "But it's just a blank folder," Tanya pointed out. "It isn't made out as a gate pass.»
«I make it out myself-in the ladies' room. I always have some old passes with me, so I know what to write. And I keep a big black pencil in my purse." Depositing the lace handkerchief in her lap, Mrs. Quonsett opened her black beaded purse. "See?" "I do see," Tanya said. She reached out, removing the crayon pencil. "Do you mind if I keep this?" Mrs. Quonsett looked faintly resentful. "It's really mine. But if you want it, I suppose I can get another.»
«Go on," Tanya said. "So now you have a boarding pass. What happens after that?" "I go to where the flight is leaving from.»
«The departure gate?" "That's right. I wait until the young man checking the tickets is busy-be always is when a lot of people come together. Then I walk past him, and on to the airplane.»
«Suppose someone tries to stop you?" "No one does, if I have a pass.»
«Not even the stewardesses?" "They're just young girls, my dear. Usually they're talking to each other, or interested in the men. All they look at is the flight number, and I always get that right.' "But you said you don't always use a boarding pass.' Mrs. Quonsett blushed. "Then, I'm afraid, I have to tell a little white lie. Sometimes I say I'm going aboard to see my daughter off-most airlines let people do that, you know. Or, if the plane has come in from somewhere else, I say I'm going back to my seat, but I left my ticket on board. Or, I tell them my son just got on, but he dropped his wallet and I want to give it to him. I carry a wallet in my hand, and that works best of all.»
«Yes," Tanya said, "I imagine it would. You seem to have thought everything out very carefully." She had plenty of material, she mused, for a bulletin to all gate agents and stewardesses. She doubted, though, if it would have much effect. "My late husband taught me to be thorough. He was a teacher-of geometry. He always said you should try to think of every angle." Tanya looked hard at Mrs. Quonsett. Was her leg being gently pulled? The face of the little old lady from San Diego remained impassive. "There's one important thing I haven't mentioned." On the opposite side of the room a telephone rang. Tanya got up to answer it. "Is that old biddy still with you?" The voice was the District Transportation Manager's. The D.T.M. was responsible for all phases of Trans America operations at Lincoln International. Usually a calm, good-natured boss, tonight he sounded irascible. Clearly, three days and nights of flight delays, rerouting unhappy passengers, and endless needlings from the airline's Eastern head office were having their effect. "Yes," Tanya said. "Get anything useful out of her?" "Quite a lot. I'll send you a report.»
«When you do, use some goddarn capitals for once, so I can read it.»
«Yes, sir." She made the "sir" sufficiently pointed, so there was a momentary silence at the other end. Then the D.T.M. grunted. "Sorry, Tanya! I guess I'm passing on to you what I've been getting from New York. Like the cabin boy kicking the ship's cat, only you're no cat. Can I do anything?" "I'd like a one-way passage to Los Angeles, tonight, for Mrs. Ada Quonsett.»
«Is that the old hen?" "The same." The D.T.M. said sourly, "I suppose, a company charge.»
«I'm afraid so.»
«What I hate about it is putting her ahead of honest-
to-goodness fare-paying passengers who've been waiting hours already. But I guess you're right; we're better off to get her out of our hair.»
«I think so.»
«I'll okay a requisition. You can pick it up at the ticket counter. But be sure to alert Los Angeles, so they can have the airport police escort the old hag off the premises." Tanya said softly, "She could be Whistler's Mother." The D.T.M. grunted. "Then let Whistler buy her a ticket." Tanya smiled and hung up. She returned to Mrs. Quonsett. "You said there was an important thing-about getting aboard flights-that you hadn't told me." The little old lady hesitated. Her mouth had tightened noticeably at the mention, during Tanya's conversation, of a return flight to Los Angeles. "You've told me most of it," Tanya prompted. "You might as well finish. If there's anything else.»
«There certainly is." Mrs. Quonsett gave a tight, prim nod. "I was going to say it's best not to choose the big flights-the important ones, I mean, that go non-stop across the country. They often get full, and they give people seat numbers, even in Economy. That makes it harder, though I did it once when I could see there weren't many others going.»
«So you take flights that aren't direct. Don't you get found out at intermediate stops?" "I pretend to be asleep. Usually they don't disturb me.,,
"But this time you were." Mrs. Quonsett pressed her lips in a thin, reproving line. "It was that man sitting beside me. He was very mean. I confided in him, and he betrayed me to the stewardess. That's what you get for trusting people.»
«Mrs. Quonsett," Tanya said. "I imagine you heard; we're going to send you back to Los Angeles." There was the slightest gleam behind the elderly, gray eyes. "Yes, my dear. I was afraid that would happen. But I'd like to get a cup of tea. So, if I can go now, and you'll tell me what time to come back…»
«Oh, no!" Tanya shook her head decisively. "You're not going anywhere alone. You can have your cup of tea, but an agent will be with you. I'm going to send for one now, and he'll stay with you until you board the Los Angeles flight. If I let you loose in this terminal I know exactly what would happen. You'd be on an airplane for New York before anybody knew it." From the momentary hostile glare which Mrs. Ouonsett gave her, Tanya knew she had guessed right. Ten minutes later, all arrangements were complete. A single seat reservation bad been made on Flight 103 for Los Angeles, leaving in an hour and a half. The flight was nonstop; there was to be no chance of Mrs. Quonsett getting off en route and heading back. D.T.M. Los Angeles had been advised by teletype; a memo was going to the crew of Flight 103. The little old lady from San Diego had been handed over to a male Trans America agent-a recently recruited junior, young enough to be her grandson. Tanya's instructions to the agent, Peter Coakley, were precise. "You're to stay with Mrs. Quonsett until flight time. She says she wants some tea, so take her to the coffee shop and she can have it; also something to eat if she asks, though there'll be dinner on the flight. But whatever she has, stay with her. If she needs the ladies' room, wait outside; otherwise, don't let her out of your sight. At flight time, take her to the departure gate, go aboard with her and hand her over to the senior stewardess. Make it clear that once aboard, she is not to be allowed off the airplane for any reason. She's full of little tricks and plausible excuses, so be careful." Before leaving, the little old lady grasped the young agent's arm. "I hope you don't mind, young man. Nowadays an old lady needs support, and you do so remind me of my dear son-in-law. He was good-looking, too, though of course lie's a lot older than you are now. Your airline does seem to employ nice people." Mrs. Quonsett glanced reproachfully at Tanya. "At least, most of them are."

"Remember what I said," Tanya cautioned Peter Coakley. "She's got a barrelful of tricks." Mrs. Quonsett said severely, "That isn't very kind. I'm sure this young man will form his own opinion." The agent was grftming sheepishly. At the doorway, Mrs. Quonsett turned. She addressed Tanya. "Despite the way you've behaved, my dear, I want you to know that I don't bear any grudge." A few minutes later, from the small lounge which she had used for tonight's two interviews, Tanya returned to the Trans America executive offices on the main mezzanine. The time, she noticed, was a quarter to nine. At her desk in the big outer office she speculated on whether the airline had heard the last, or not, of Mrs. Ada Quonsett. Tanya rather doubted it. On her capitalless typewriter she began a memo to the District Transportation Manager. to: dtm froni: tanya liv'stn sbject: whistler's mum
She stopped, wondering where Mel Bakersfeld was, and if he would come. 5
He simply couldn't, Mel Bakersfeld decided, go downtown tonight. Mel was in his office, in the mezzanine administrative suite. His fingers drummed thoughtfully on the surface ,of his desk, from where he had been telephoning, obtaining latest reports on the airport's operating status. Runway three zero was still out of use, still blocked by the niired A6reo-Mexican jet. As a result, the gen– eral runway availability situation was now critical, and traffic delays-both in the air and on the ground-were worsening. The possibility of having to declare the airport closed, some time within the next few hours, was very real. Meanwhile, aircraft takeoffs were continuing over Meadowood, which was a hornet's nest all its own. The airport switchboard, as well as air traffic control's, was being swamped with bitterly complaining calls from Meadowood householders-those who were at home. A good many others, Mel had been informed, were at the protest meeting he had heard about earlier this evening; and now there was a rumor-which the tower chief had passed along a few minutes ago-that some kind of public demonstration was being planned, to take place at the airport tonight. Mel thought glumly: a bunch of demonstrators underfoot was all he needed. One good thing was that the category three emergency had just been declared concluded, the air force KC-135 which caused it, having landed safely. But one emergency ended was no assurance another would not begin. Mel had not forgotten the vague unease, the presentiment of danger he had felt while on the airfield an hour ago. The feeling, impossible to define or justify, still bothered him. Yet even without it, the other cir– cumstances were enough to require his remaining here. Cindy, of course-still waiting for him at her charity whingding-would raise all bell. But she was angry, anyway, because he was going to be late; he would have to brace himself to absorb the extra wrath as a result of not appearing at all. He supposed he might as well get Cindy's first salvo over with. The slip of paper with the downtown number where he had reached his wife earlier was still in his pocket. He took it out, and dialed. As before, it took several minutes for Cindy to come to the telephone, and when she did, surprisingly, there was none of the fire she had shown during their previous conversation, only an icy chill. She listened in silence to Mel's explanation-why it was essential he should remain at the airport. Because of the lack of argument, which he had not expected, he found himself flound– ering, with labored excuses not wholly convincing to himself. He stopped abruptly. There was a pause before Cindy inquired coldly, "Have you ftnished?" "Yes. 11 She sounded as if she were talking to someone distasteful and remote. "I'm not surprised, because I didn't expect you to come. When you said you would, I assumed as usual you were lying." He said heatedly, "I wasn't lying, and it isn't as usual. I told you earlier tonight, how many times I've been . "I thought you said you'd finished." Mel stopped. What was the use? He conceded wearily, "Go on.»
«As I was trying to say when you interr-upted-also as usual. . .»
«Cindy, for God's sake!" ". . . knowing you were lying, gave me the chance to do some thinking." She paused. "You say you're staying at the airport.»
«Considering that's what this conversation is all about
"How long?" "Until midnight; perhaps all night.»
«Then I'll come out there. You can expect me.»
«Listen, Cindy, it's no good. This isn't the time or place.»
«Then we'll make it the time. And for what I have to say to you, any place is good enough.»
«Cindy, please be reasonable. I agree there are things we have to discuss, but not . . ." Mel stopped, realizing he was talking to himself. Cindy had hung up. He replaced his own phone and sat in the silent office, meditatively. Then, not quite knowing why, he picked up the telephone again and, for the second time tonight, dialed home. Earlier, Roberta had answered. This time it was Mrs. Sebastiani, their regular babysitter. 11 1 was just calling to check," Mel said. "Is everything all right? Are the girls in bed?" "Roberta is, Mr. Bakersfeld. Libby's just going.»
«May I speak to Libby?»
«Well . . . just for a moment, if you promise to be very quick-" "I promise." Mrs. Sebastiani, Mel perceived, was her usual didactic sell'. When on duty she exacted obedience, not just from children, but from entire families. He sometimes wondered if the Sebastianis-there was a mousy husband who appeared occasionally-ever had emotional marriage problems. He suspected not. Mrs. Sebastiani would never permit it. He heard the patter of Libby's feet approach the phone. "Daddy," Libby said, "does our blood keep going round inside forever and ever?" Libby's questions were always intriguingly different. She opened new subjects as if they were presents under a Christmas tree. "Not forever, dear; nothing's forever. Just so long as you five. Your blood has been going around for seven years, ever since your heart started pumping.»
«I can feel my heart," Libby said. "In my knee." He was on the point of explaining that hearts were not in knees, and about pulses and arteries and veins, then changed his mind. There was plenty of time for all that. As long as you could feel your heart-wherever it seemed to be-that was the important thing. Libby had an instinct for essentials; at times he had the impression that her little hands reached up and gathered stars of truth. "Goodnight, Daddy.»
«Goodnight, my love." Mel was still not sure why be had called, but he felt better for having done so. As to Cindy, when she determined to do something she usually did it, so it was entirely likely that she would arrive at the airport later tonight. And perhaps she was right. There were fundamental things they had to settle, notably whether their hollow shell of a marriage was to continue for the children's sake, or not. At least they would have privacy here, out of hearing of Roberta and Libby, who had overheard too many of their fights before.

At the moment there was nothing specific for Mel to do, except be available. He went out from his office onto the executive mezzanine, looking down on the continued bustling activity of the main terminal concourse. It would not be many years, Mel reflected, before airport concourses changed dramatically. Something would have to be done soon to revise the present inefficient way in which people boarded airplanes and got off them. Simply walking on and off, individually, was far too cumbersome and slow. As each year passed, individual airplanes cost more and more millions of dollars; at the same time, the cost of letting them stay idle on the ground grew greater. Aircraft designers, airline planners, were striving to arrange more flying hours, which produced revenue, and fewer ground hours, which produced none at all. Already plans were afoot for "people-pods"-based on American Airline-type "igloos" now used for preloading air freight. Most other airlines had their own variants of the igloo system. Freight igloos were self-contained compartments, shaped to fit tightly in a jet plane fuselage. Each igloo was pre-loaded with freight of associated shapes and sizes, and could be lifted to fuselage level, and stowed inside a jet, in minutes. Unlike conventional passenger planes, the inside of a jet freighter was usually a hollow shell. Nowadays when an all-cargo plane arrived at an airport freight terminal, igloos already in the airplane were off-loaded, and new ones put in. With a minimum of time and labor, an entire jet could be swiftly unloaded, reloaded, and be ready again for takeoff. "People-pods" would be an adaptation of the same idea, and Mel had seen drawings of the type now contemplated. They would comprise small, comfortable cabin sections complete with seats, which passengers would step into at an airport check-in point. The pods would then be whisked on conveyor lines-similar to present baggage conveyor systems-to ramp positions. While their occupants remained seated, the people-pods would be slid into an aircraft which might have arrived only a few minutes earlier, but had already discharged other people-pods containing incoming passengers. When the pods were loaded and in place, windows in them would correspond with windows in the aircraft fuselage. Doors at the end of each pod would fold back so that stewardesses and passengers could pass through to other sections. Galley compartments, complete with fresh food and fresh stewardesses, would be inserted as separate pods. A refinement of the system might eventually allow boarding of people-pods downtown, or permit interline transfers by passengers without ever leaving their seats. A related concept was a "sky lounge" already under development in Los Angeles. Each lounge, holding forty passengers, would be part-bus, part-helicopter. On local routes it could travel suburban or downtown streets under its own power, then, at a local heliport become a pod beneath an outsize helicopter-the entire unit whisked to and from an airport. And these things would happen, Mel Bakersfeld reflected. Or if not those precisely, then something similar, and soon. A fascination, for those who worked in the aviation milieu, was the speed with which fantastic dreams came true. A shout, abruptly, from the concourse below, broke into his thoughts. "Hey, Bakersfeld! Hey up there!" Mel searched with his eyes, seeking the source of the voice. Locating it was made more difficult by the fact that fifty or so faces, their owners curious about who was being called, had simultaneously swung up. A moment later he identified the caller. It was Egan Jeffers, a tall, lean Negro in light tan slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. One sinewy brown arm gestured urgently. "You get down here, Bakersfeld. You hear me! You got troubles." Mel smiled. Jeffers, who held the terminal shoeshine concession, was an airport character. With a challenging, broad grin across his homely features, he could make the most outrageous statements and somehow get away with it. "I hear you, Egan Jeffers. How about you coming up instead?"

The grin widened. "Nuts to that, Bakersfeld! I'm a lessee and don't forget it.»
«If I do, I suppose you'll read me the Civil Rights Act.»
«You said it, Bakersfeld. Now haul your ass down here.»
«And you watch your language in my airport." Still amused, Mel turned away from the mezzanine rail and headed for the staff elevator. At the main concourse level, Egan Jeffers was waiting. Jeffers operated four shoeshine parlors within the terminal. As concessions went, it was not a major one, and the airport's parking, restaurant, and newsstand concessions produced revenues which were astronomical by comparison. But Egan Jeffers, a one-time curbside bootblack, blithely behaved as if he alone kept the airport solvent. "We gotta contract, me and this airport. Check?" "Check.»
«Down in all that fancy rig-y-marole it says I got the ex-clu-sive right to shine shoes in these here premises. Ex-clu-sive. Check?" "Check.»
«Like I said, man, you got trouble. Follow me, Bakersfeld." They crossed the main concourse to a lower level escalator which Jeffers descended in long strides, two steps at a time. He waved genially to several people as they passed. Less athletically, favoring his weaker foot, Mel followed. At the foot of the escalator, near the group of carrental booths occupied by Hertz, Avis, and National, Egan Jeffers gestured. "There it is, Bakersfeld! Look at it! Taking the shoe polish outa the mouths of me and the boys who work for me." Mel inspected the cause of complaint. At the Avis counter a bold display card read:

A SHINE WHILE YOU SIGN
With Our Compliments We're Trying Harder Still! Beneath, at floor level, was a rotating electric shoe polisher, positioned so that anyone standing at the counter could do what the notice said. Mel was half amused; the other half of his mind accepted Egan Jeffers' complaint. Half-kidding or not, Jeffers was within his rights. His contract spelled out that no one else at the airport could shine shoes, just as Jeffers himself could not rent cars or sell newspapers. Each concessionaire received the same kind of protection in return for the substantial portion of his profits which the airport appropriated for itself. With Egan Jeffers watching, Mel crossed to the carrental booth. He consulted his pocket panic list-a slim booklet containing private telephone numbers of senior airport personnel. The Avis manager was listed. The girl behind the counter switched on an automatic smile as he approached. Mel instructed her, "Let me use your phone." She protested, "Sir, it's not a public . "I'm the airport manager." Mel reached across, picked up the telephone and dialed. Not being recognized in his own airport was a frequent experience. Most of Mel's work kept him behind scenes, away from public areas, so that those who worked there seldom saw him. Listening to the ringing tone, he wished that other problems could be settled as swiftly and simply as this one was going to be. It took a dozen rings, then several minutes more of waiting, before the Avis manager's voice came on the line. "Ken Kingsley here.»
«I might have needed a car," Mel said. "Where were ug" "Playing with my kid's trains. Take my mind off automobfles-and people who call me about them.»
«Must be great to have a boy," Mel said. "I just have girls. Is your boy mechanically minded?" "An eight-year-old genius. Any time you need him to run that toy airport of yours, let me know.»
«Sure will, Ken." Mel winked at Egan Jeffers. "There is one thing he might do now. He could set up a shoe– shine machine at home. I happen to know where there's one surplus. So do you." There was a silence, then the Avis manager sighed. "Why is it you guys always want to stifle a little honest sales promotion?" "Mostly because we're mean and ornery. But we can make it stick. Remember that contract clause?-any change in display space must have prior approval of airport management. Then there's the one about not infringing on other lessees' business.»
«I get it," Kingsley said. "Egan Jeffers has been beefing.»
«Let's say be isn't cheering.»
«Okay, you win. I'll tell my people to yank the daran thing. Is there any fat rush?" "Not really," Mel said. "Any time in the next half hour will do.»
«You bastard." But he could hear the Avis man chuckling as he hung up. Egan Jeffers nodded approvingly, his wide grin still in place. Mel brooded: I'm the friendly airport fun man; I make everybody happy. He wished he could do the same thing for himself. "You handled that A-OK, Bakersfeld," Jeffers said. "Just stay on the ball so it don't happen again." At a businesslike pace, still beaming, he headed for the "up" escalator. Mel followed more slowly. On the main concourse level, at the Trans America counters, a milling crowd was in front of two positions marked:

Special Check-in
Flight Two-The Golden Argosy
Rome Nonstop
Nearby, Tanya Livingston was talking animatedly with a group of passengers. She signaled Mel and, after a moment or two, came over to join lum. "I mustn't stop; it's like a madhouse here. I thought you were going downtown.»
«My plans changed," Mel said. "For that matter, I thought you were going off duty.»
«The D.T.M. asked if I'd stay. We're trying to get The Golden Argosy away on time. It's supposed to be for prestige, though I suspect the real reason is, Captain Demerest doesn't like to be kept waiting.»
«You're letting prejudice carry you away." Mel grinned. "Though sometimes I do, too." Tanya gestured down the concourse to a raised platform with a circular counter surrounding it, a few yards from where they were standing. "That's what your big fight with your brother-in-law was all about; why Captain Dernerest is so mad at you. Isn't it?" Tanya was pointing to the airport's insurance-vending booth. A dozen or more people were ranged around the circular counter, most of them completing application forms for air trip insurance. Behind the counter, two attractive girls, one a striking blonde with big breasts, were busy writing policies. "Yes," Mel acknowledged, "that was most of our trouble-at least, recently. Vernon and the Air Line Pflots Association think we should abolish insurance booths at airports, and insurance policy vending machines. I don't. The two of us had a battle about it in front of the Board of Airport Commissioners. What Vernon didn't like, and still doesn't, is that I won.»
«I heard," Tanya looked at Mel searchingly. "Some of us don't agree with you. This time we think Captain Dernerest is right." Mel shook his head. "Then we'll have to disagree. I've been over it all so many times; Vernon's arguments just don't make sense." They hadn't made any more sense-in Mel's opinion –that day a month ago, at Lincoln International, when Vernon Denierest had appeared before an Airport Commissioners meeting. Vernon requested the bearing, and had represented the Air Line Pilots Association, which was waging a campaign to outlaw insurance vending at airports everywhere. Mel remembered the details of the session clearly. It was a regular Board of Airport Commissioners

meeting, on a Wednesday morning in the air-port board room. Ali five commissioners were present: Mrs. Mildred Ackerman, an attractive brunette housewife who was rumored to be a mistress of the mayor, hence her appointment; and her four male colleagues-a university professor, who was Board chairman, two local businessmen, and a retired union official. The Board room was a mahogany paneled chamber, in the terminal, on the executive mezzanine. At one end, on a raised platform, the commissioners sat in reclining leather chairs behind a handsome elliptical-shaped table. At a lower level was a second table, less elaborate. Here Mel Bakersfeld presided, flanked by his department beads. Alongside was a press table and, at the rear, a section for the public, since Board meetings were nominally open. The public section was rarely occupied. Today the only outsider, apart from commissioners and staff, was Captain Vernon Demerest, smartly attired in Trans America uniform, his four gold stripes of rank bright under the overhead lights. He sat waiting in the public section, with books and papers spread over two other chairs beside him. Courteously, the Board elected to hear Captain Dernerest first, ahead of its regular business, Demerest rose. He addressed the Board with his usual self-assurance, and referred only occasionally to his notes. He was appearing, he explained, on behalf of the Air Line Pilots Association, of which he was a local council chairman. However, the views he would expound were equally his own, and were shared by most pilots of all airlines. The commissioners settled back in their reclining chairs to listen. Airport insurance vending, Dernerest began, was a ridiculous, archaic hangover from flying's early days. The very presence of insurance booths and machines, their prominence in airport concourses, were insults to commercial aviation, which bad a finer safety record, in relation to miles traveled, than any other form of transportation. In a railway station or bus depot, or on boarding an 188 AiRPORT
ocean liner, or driving his own car from a parking garage, did a departing traveler have special insurance policies, against death and mutilation, thrust beneath his nose with subtle sales pressure? Of course not! Then why aviation? Demerest aTiswered his own question. The reason, he declared, was that insurance companies knew a rich bonanza when they saw it, "and never mind the consequences." Commercial aviation was still sufficiently new so that many people thought of traveling by air as hazardous, despite the provable fact that an individual was safer in a commercial airliner than in his own home. This inherent mistrust of flying was magnified on the exceedingly rare occasions when an airline accident occurred. The impact was dramatic, and obscured the fact that far more deaths and injuries occurred in other, more accepted ways. The truth about the safety of flying, Demerest pointed out, was attested by insurance companies themselves. Airline pilots, whose exposure to air travel was far greater than that of passengers, could buy standard life insurance at regular rates and, through their own group plans, at even lower rates than the general populace. Yet other insurance companies, abetted by greedy airport managements, and with the docile acquiescence of airlines, continued to batten on the fears and gullibility of air travelers. Listening, at the staff table, Mel conceded mentally that his brother-in-law was making a lucid presentation, though the reference to "greedy airport managements" had been unwise. The remark had produced frowns from several of the five commissioners, including Mrs. Ackerman. Vernon Demerest seemed not to notice. "Now, madam and gentlemen, we come to the most significant, the vital point." This, he declared, was the very real danger, to every air passenger and to all flying crews, created by irresponsible, casual sales of insurance policies at airport counters, and by vendiag machines . . . "policies prom– ising vast sums, fortunes, in return for a mere few dollars' premium." Demerost continued heatedly: "The system-if you choose t(, dignify a public disservice by calling it a system . . . and most pilots don't-offers a gilt-edged, open invitation to maniacs and criminals to engage in sabotage and mass murder. Their objectives need be only the simplest: personal reward for themselves or their expected beneficiaries.»
«Captain!" The woman commissioner, Mrs. Ackerman, was leaning forward in her chair. From her voice and expression, Mel guessed she was doing a slow bum about thi~ "greedy airport managements" remark. "Captain, we're hearing a whole lot of your opinions. Do you have any facts to back up all this?" "Indeed I do, madam. There are many facts." Vernon Demerest bad prepared his case thoroughly. Using charts and graphs, he demonstrated that known in-flight disasters caused by bombings or other acts of violence averaged one and one half per year. Motives varied, but a consistent, prevalent cause was financial gain from flight insurance. As well, there had been additional bombing attempts which either failed or were prevented, and other disasters where sabotage was suspected bul. not proved. He named classic incidents: Canadian Pacific Airlines, 1949 and 1965; Western Airlines, 1957; National Airlines, 1960 and a suspected sabotage in 1959; two Mexican airlines, 1952 and 1953; Venezuelan Airlines, 1960; Continental Airlines, 1962; Pacific Air Lines, 1964; United Air Lines, 1950, 1955, and a suspected sabotage ~n 1965. In nine of the thirteen incidents, all passengers and crew members perished. It was true, of course, that where sabotage was exposed, any insurance policies which had been taken out by those involved were automatically invalidated. In short: sabotage didn't pay, and normal, informed people were aware of this, They also knew that even after an air disastcr from which there were no survivors, providing wieckage was located, it was possible to tell whether an explosion had occurred and, usually, by what means. But it was not normal people, Demerest reminded the commissioners, who committed bombings or savage acts of violence. It was the abnormal, the psychopaths, the criminally insane, the conscienceless mass killers. That kind of people were seldom well-informed, and even if they were, the pyschopathic mind had a way of perceiving only what it wanted to, of bending facts to suit what it was convenient to believe. Mrs. Ackerman made an interjection again; this time her hostility to Dernerest was unmistakable. "I'm not sure any of us, even you, Captain, have qualifications to discuss what goes on in the mind of psychopaths.»
«I wasn't discussing it," Demerest said impatiently. "In any case, that isn't the point.»
«Pardon me, you were discussing it. And I happen to think it is the point." Vernon Demerest flushed. He was accustomed to command, not to being questioned. His temper, never far below the surface, flashed. "Madam, are you normally stupid or just being deliberately obtuse?" The Board chairman rapped sharply with his gavel, and Mel Bakersfeld resisted the urge to laugh. Well, Mel thought, we might as well finish right now. Vernon should stick to flying, which he was good at, and avoid diplomacy, where he had just struck out. The chances of the Airport Board doing anything which Captain Demerest wanted were, at this moment, minus nil-at least unless Mel helped Demerest out. For a moment he wondered if he should. He suspected Demerest realized he had gone too far. However, there was still time to turn what had just happened into a joke which everyone could laugh at, including Mildred Ackerman. Mel bad a knack for doing that kind of thing, for making differences amenable, at the same time saving face for those on both sides. Also, he knew he was a favorite of Millie Ackerman's; they got on well together, and she always listened attentively to anything Mel might , say. Then he decided: the hell with it. He doubted if his

brother-in-law would do the same thing if their situations werc reversed. Let Vernon get out of the mess himself. I n any case, Mel was going to have his own say in a few ruinutes' time. "Captain Demerest," the Board chairman observed coldly, "that last remark is uncalled for, out of order, and you A ill please withdraw it." Demerest's features were still flushed. Momentarily be hesitated, then nodded. "Very well, I withdraw it." He glanced at Mrs. Acker-man. "I beg the lady's pardon. Perhaps she can understand that this is a subject which 1, like most commercial flying crews, feel strongly about. When thcre's something which seems to me so obvious . . ."He left the sentence incomplete. Mrs. Ackerman was glaring. The apology, such as it was, Mel thought, had been handled badly. Now it was too late to smooth things over, even if he wanted to. One oC the other commissioners asked, "Captain, what exactly do you want from us?" Demerest took a pace forward. His voice became persuasive. "I'm appealing to you for abolition of insurance machines and over-the-counter insurance vending at this airport, and a promise that you will refuse to rent space, ever again, for the same purpose.»
«You'd. abolish insurance sales entirely?" "At airports-yes. I may say, madam and gentlemen, that the Air Line Pilots Association is urging other airports to do the same thing. We're also asking Congress to take action to make airport insurance sales illegal.»
«What would be the point of doing that in the United States, when air travel is international?" Demer-st smileJ faintly. "This campaign is international, too.»
«How international?" "We have the active support of pilots' groups in forty-eight other countries. Most believe that if an example were set in North America, either by the U.S. or Canada,others would follow." The same commissioner said skeptically, "I'd say you're all expecting quite a lot.»
«Surely," the chairman interjected, "the public is entitled to buy air travel iniurance if they want it." Demerest nodded agreement. "Of course. No one is saying they can't.»
«Yes, you are." It was Mrs. Ackerman again. The muscles around Demerest's mouth tightened. "Madam, anyone can get all the travel insurance he wants. All he needs have is the elementary foresight to make arrangements in advance-through any insurance broker or even a travel agency." His glance took in the other commissioners. "Nowadays a good many people carry a blanket accident policy for travel; then they make all the trips they want, and they're insured permanently. There are plenty of ways of doing it. As an example, the major credit card companies-Diners, American Express, Carte Blanche-all offer permanent travel insurance to their card holders; it can be renewed automatically each year, and billed." Most businessmen who traveled, Dernerest pointed out, had at least one of the credit cards he had named, so abolition of airport insurance need impose no hardship nor inconvenience on business people. "And with all these blanket policies, the rates are low. I know, because I have that kind of policy myself." Vernon Dernerest paused, then continued, "The important thing about all these insurance policies is that they go through channels. The applications are handled by experienced people; a day or so elapses between an application and the issuance of the policy. Because of this, there is a far better chance of the psychotic, the maniac, the unbalanced individual being noticed, his intentions questioned. "Another thing to remember-an insane or unbalanced person is a creature of impulse. Where flight insurance is concerned, this impulse is catered to by the quickie, no-questions-asked policies available from airport vending machines and at insurance counters.»
«I think we all get the point you're making," the .chairman said sharply. "You're beginning to repeat yourself, Captain."

Mrs. Ackerman nodded. "I agree. Personally, I'd like to hear what Mr. Bakersfeld has to say." The eyes of the commissioners swung toward Mel. He acknowledged. "Yes, I do have some observations. But I'd prefer to wait until Captain Demerest is completely finished.»
«He's finished," Mildred Ackerman said. "We just decided." One of the other commissioners laughed, and the chairman rapped with his gravel. "Yes, I really think so … If you please, Mr. Bakersfeld." As Mel rose, Vernon Demerest returned, glowering, to his seat. "I mayas well make it clear," Mel began, "that I take the opposite point of view to just about everything Vernon has said. I guess you could call it a family disagreement." The commissioners, who were aware of Mel's relationship by marriage to Vernon Demerest, smiled, and already, Mel sensed, the tension of a few minutes earlier had lessened. He was used to these meetings and knew that inforniality was always the best approach. Vernon could have found that out, too-if he had taken the trouble to inquire. "There are several points we ought to think about," Met continued. "First, let's face up to the fact that most people have always had an inherent fear of flying, and I'm convinced that feeling will always exist, no matter how much progress we make, and however much we improve our safety record. Incidentally, the one point on which I agree with Vernon is that our safety record is exceedingly good already." He went on: Because of this inherent fear, many passengers felt more comfortable, more reassured, with air trip insurance. They wanted it. They also wanted it to be obtainable at airports, a fact proven by the enormous volume of sales from vending machines and airport insurance booths. It was a matter of freedom that passengers should have the right, and the opportunity, to buy insurance or not. As for getting the insurance ahead of time, the plain fact was that most people didn't think of it. Besides, Mel added, if flight insurance were sold this way, a great deal of revenue to airports-including Lincoln International-would be lost. At the mention of airport revenue, Mel smiled. The airport commissioners smiled with him. That was the crux of it, of course, Mel realized. Revenue from the insurance concessions was too important to lose. At Lincoln International, the airport gained half a million dollars annually from commissions on insurance sales, though few purchasers realized that the air-port appropriated twenty-five cents from every premium dollar. Yet insurance represented the fourth largest concession, with only parking, restaurants, and auto rentals producing larger sums for the airport's coffers. At other big airports, insurance revenue was similar or higher. It was all very well, Mel reflected, for Vernon Demerest to talk about "greedy airport managements," but that kind of money had a way of talking, too. Mel decided not to put his thoughts into speech. His single brief reference to revenue was enough. The commissioners, who were familiar with the airport's financial affairs, would get the point. He consulted his notes. They were notes which one of the insurance companies doing business at Lincoln International had supplied him with yesterday. Mel bad not asked for the notes, nor had he mentioned to anyone outside his own office that today's insurance debate was coming up. But the insurance people had somehow learned, and it was extraordinary how they always did –then acted promptly to protect their interests. Mel would not have used the notes if they had run counter to his own honestly held opinions. Fortunately, they did not. "Now," Mel said, "about sabotage-potential and otherwise." He was aware of the board members listening intently. "Vernon has talked quite a lot about that-but I must say, having listened carefully, that most of his remarks seemed to me to be overstatements. Actually, the

proven incidents of air disasters because of insurance-inspired bombings have been very few." In the spectator section, Captain Dernerest shot to his feet. "Great God!-how many disasters do we need to have?" The chairman rapped sharply with his gavel. "Captain … if you please!" Mel waited until Demerest subsided, then continued calmly, "Since the question has been asked, the answer is 'none.' A more pertinent question is: Might not the disasters still have occurred, even if airport-purchased insurance had not been available?" Mel paused, to let his point sink home, before continuing. "It can be argued, of course, that if airport insurance had not been available, the disasters we are talking about might never have happened at all. In other words, these were crimes of impulse, triggered by the ease with which airport insurance can be bought. Similarly, it can be contended that even if the crimes were contemplated in advance, they might not have been carried through had flight insurance been less readily available. Those, I think, are Vernon's arguments-and the ALPA's." Mel glanced briefly at his brother-in-law who gave no sign beyond a scowl. "The glaring weakness of all those arguments," Mel maintained, "is that they are purely suppositional. It seems to me just as likely that someone planning such a crime would not be deterred by the absence of airport insurance, but would merely obtain their insurance elsewhere, which-as Vernon himself pointed out-is a simple thing to do." Expressed another way, Mel pointed out, flight insurance appeared only a secondary motive of would-be saboteurs, and not a prime reason for their crime. The real motives, when aerial sabotage occurred, were based on age-old human weaknesses-love triangles, greed, business failures, suicide. As long as there had been human beings, Mel argued, it had proven impossible to eliminate these motives. Therefore, those concerned with aviation safety and sabotage prevention should seek, not to abolish airport flight insurance, but to strengthen other precautionary measures in the air and on the ground. One such measure was stricter control of the sale of dynamitethe principal tool used by most aerial saboteurs to date. Another proposal was development of "sniffer" devices to detect explosives in baggage. One such device, Mel informed the attentive Airport Commissioners, was already in experimental use. A third idea-urged by flight insurance companieswas that passengers' baggage be opened for examination before flight, in the same way that happened with Customs inspection now. However, Mel concluded, the last idea presented obvious difficulties. There should be stricter enforcement, he claimed, of existing laws prohibiting the carrying of side arms on commercial airliners. And airplane design should be studied in relation to sabotage, with the objective that aircraft could better endure an internal explosion. In that connection, one idea-also advocated by the insurance vendinv companies-was for an inner skin of baggage compartments to be made stronger and heavier than at present, even at the price of increased weight and decreased airline revenue. The FAA, Mel pointed out, had made a study of airport insurance and subsequently opposed any ban on airport sales. Mel glanced at Vernon Demerest, who was glowering. Both knew that the FAA "study" was a sore point with the airline pilots since it had been made by an insurance company executive-an aviation insurance man himself-whose impartiality was highly suspect. There were several more points remaining in the insurance company notes which Mel had not yet touched on, but he decided he had said enough. Besides, some of the remaininp– arguments were less convincing, He even had serious doubts, now that he had made it, about the baggage compartment suggestion of a moment or two ago. Who would the extra weight be for, he wondered –the passengers, airlines, or mostly for the flight insurance companies? But the other arguments, he thought, were sound enough.

"So," he concluded, "what we have to decide is whether, because of supposition and very little else, we should deprive the public of a service which they so obviously want." As Mel resumed his seat, Mildred Ackerman said promptly and emphatically, "I'd say no." She shot Vernon Dernerest a glance of triumph. With minimum formality the other commissioners agreed, then adjourned, leaving other business until after-noon. In the corridor outside, Vernon Dernerest was waiting for Mel. "Hi, Vernon!" Mel spoke quickly, making an effort at conciliation before his brother-in-law could speak. "No hard feelings, I hope. Even friends and relatives have to differ now and then." The "friends" was, of course, an overstatement. Mel Bakersfeld and Vernon Demerest had never liked each other, despite Demerest's marriage to Mel's sister, Sarab, and both men knew it; also, of late, the dislike bad sharpened to open antagonism. "You're damn right there are hard feellings," Demcrest said. The peak of his anger had passed, but his eyes were hard. The commissioners, now filing out from the Board room, looked curiously at them both. The commissioners were on their way to lunch. In a few minutes Mel would join them. Demerest said contemptuously, "It's easy for people like you-ground-bound, desk-tied, with penguins' minds. If you were in the air as often as I am, you'd have a difforent point of view." Mel said sharply, "I wasn't always flying a desk.»
«Oh, for Christ's sake! Don't hand me that hero veteran crap. You're at zero-feet now; the way you think shows it. If you weren't, you'd see this insurance deal the way any self-respecting pilot does.»
«You're sure you mean self-respecting, not selfadoring?" If Vernon wanted a slanging match, Mel decided, he could have one. There was no one else within hearing now. "The trouble with most of you pilots is you've become so used to thinking of yourselves as demigods and captains of the clouds, you've convinced yourselves your brains are something wonderful too. Well, except in a few specialized ways, they're not. Sometimes I think the rest of what you have has addled through sitting up in that rarefied air too long while automatic pilots do the work. So when someone comes up with an honest opinion which happens to run counter to your own, you behave like spoiled little children.»
«I'll let al] that stuff go," Dernerest said, "though if anybody's childish it's you right now. What's more to the point is that you're dishonest.»
«Now look, Vernon. . .»
«An honest opinion, you said." Dernerest sported in disgust. "Horiest opinion, my eye! In there, you were using an insurance company poop sheet. You were reading from it! I could see from where I was sitting, and I know because I have a copy myself." He touched the pile of books and papers he was carrying. "You didn't even have the decency, or take the trouble, to prepare a case yourself." Mel flushed. His brother-in-law had caught him out. He should have prepared his own case, or at least adapted the insurance company's notes and had them retyped. It was true he had been busier than usual for several days before the meeting, but that was no excuse. "Some day you may regret this," Vernon Demerest said. "If you. do, and I'm around, I'll be the one to remind you of today. Until then, I can do without seeing you any mote than I have to." Before Mel could reply, his brother-in-law had turned and gone.
Remembeiing, now, with Tanya beside him in the main terminal concourse, Mel wondered-as he had several times since-if he could not have handled the clash with Vernon a good deal better. He could still have differed with his brother-in-law; even now Mel saw no reason to change his point of view. But he could have done it more good-naturedly, avoiding the tactless– ness which was a part of Vernon Dernerest's makeup, but not of Mel's. There had been no confrontation, since that day, between the two of them; the near-encounter with Demcrest in the airport coffee shop tonight had been Mel's first sight of his brother-in-law since the airport commis– sioners' meeting. Mel had never been close to his older sister, Sarah, and they seldom visited each other's homes. Yet sooner or later, Mel and Vernon Dernerest would have to meet, if not to resolve their differences, at least to shelve them. And, Mel thought, judging by the strongly worded snow committee report-unquestionably inspired by Vernon's antagonism-the sooner it happened, the better. "I wouldn't have mentioned the insurance bit," Tanya said, "if I'd known it would send you so far away from me. Though the recollections which had flashed through his mind occupied only seconds of time, Mel was conscious once again of Tanya's perceptiveness concerning himself. No one else that he could remember had ever had quite the same facility for divining his thoughts. It argued an instinctive closeness between them. He was aware of Tanya watching his face, her eyes gentle, understanding, but beyond the gentleness was a woman's strength and a sensuality which instinct told him could leap to flame. Suddenly, he wanted their closeness to become closer still. "You didn't send me far away," Mel answered. "You brought me nearer. At this moment I want you very much." As their eyes met directly, he added, "In every way.19 Tanya was characteristically frank. "I want you too." She smiled slightly. "I have for a long time." His impulse was to suggest that they both leave now, and find some quiet place together … Tanya's apartment perhaps. . . and hang the consequences! Then Mel accepted what he already knew; he couldn't go. Not yet. "We'll meet later," he told her. "Tonight. I'm not sure how much later, but we will. Don't go home without me." He wanted to reach out, and seize and hold her, and press her body to his, but the traffic of the concourse was all around them. She reached out, her fingertips resting lightly on his band. The sense of contact was electric. "I'll wait," Tanya said. "I'll wait as long as you want." A moment later she moved away, and was instantly swallowed tip in the press of passengers around the Trans America counters. 6
Despite her forcefulness when she had talked with Mel a half-hour earlier, Cindy Bakersfeld was uncertain what to do next. She wished there were someone she could trust to advise her. Should she go to the airport tonight, or not? Alone and lonely, with the cocktail party babel of the Friends of the Archidona Children's Relief Fund around her, Cindy brooded uneasily over the two courses of action she could take. Through most of the evening, until now, she had moved from group to group, chatting animatedly, meeting people she knew, or wanted to. But for some reason tonight-rather more than usualCindy was aware of being here unaccompanied. For the past few minutes she had been standing thoughtfully, preoccupied, by herself. She reasoned again: She didn't feel like going unescorted into dinner, which would begin soon. So on the one band she could go home; on the other, she could seek out Mel and face a fight. On the telephone with Mel she had insisted she would go to the airport and confront him. But if she went, Cindy realized, it would mean a showdown-almost certainly irreversible and final-between them both. Commonsense told her that sooner or later the show-
down must come, so better to have it now and done with; and there were other related matters which had to be resolved. Yet fifteen years of marriage were not to be shrugged off lightly like a disposable plastic raincoat. No matter how many deficiencies and disagreements there were-and Cindy could think of plenty-when two people lived together that long, there were connecting strands between them which it would be painful to sever. Even now, Cindy believed, their marriage could be salvaged if both of them tried bard enough. The point was: Did they want to? Cindy was convinced she didif Mel would meet some of her conditions, though in the past he bad refused to, and she doubted very much if he would ever change as much as she would like. Yet without some changes, continuing to live together as they were would be intolerable. Lately there had not even been the consolation of sex which once upon a time made up for other inadequacies. Something had gone wrong there too, though Cindy was not sure what. Mel still excited her sexually; even now, just thinking about him in that way was enough to arouse her, and at this moment she was conscious of her body stirring. But somehow, when the opportunity was there, their mental separation inhibited them both. The result-at least in Cindy-was frustration, anger, and later a sexual appetite so strong that she bad to have a man. Any man. She was still standing alone, in the plush La Salle Salon of the Lake Michigan Inn, where tonight's reception for the press was being held. The buzz of conversation around her was mostly about the storm and the difficulty everyone had had in getting here; but at least –unlike Mel, Cindy thought-they had made it. Occasionally there was a mention of Archidona, reminding Cindy that she still hadn't found out which Archidona –Ecuador or Spain . . . damn you, Mel Bakersfeld! Okay, so I'm not as smart as you are-her charity was directed at. An arm brushed against hers and a voice said amiably, "No drink, Mrs. Bakersfeld? Can I get you one?" Cindy turred. The questioner was a newspaperman named Derek Eden, whom she knew slightly. His byline appeared in the Sun-Times frequently. Like many of his kind, lie had an easy, confident manner and air of mild dissipation. She was aware that each of them had taken note of the other on previous occasions. "All right," Cindy said. "A Bourbon and water, go lightly on the water. And please use my first name; I think you know it.»
«Sure thing, Cindy." The newspaperman's eyes were admiring and frankly appraising. Well, Cindy thought, why not? She knew she looked good tonight; she had dressed well and made up carefully. "I'll be back," Derek Eden assured her, "so don't go away now I've found you." He headed purposefully for the bar. Waiting, surveying the crowded La Salle Salon , Cindy caught the glance of an older woman in a flowered hat. At once Cindy smiled warmly and the woman nodded, but her eyes moved on. She was a society page columnist. A photographer was beside her and together they were planning pictures for what would probably be a full-page layout in tomorrow's paper. The woman in the flowered hat motioned several of the charity workers and their guests together, and they crowded in, smiling obligingly, trying to look casual, but pleased that they had been selected. Cindy knew why she had been passed over; alone she was not important enough, though she would have been if Mel were there. In the city's life, Mel rated. The galling thing was-socially, Mel didn't care. Across the room the photographer's light gun flashed; the woman in the hat was writing names. Cindy could have cried. For almost every charity . . . she volunteered, worked hard, served on the meanest committees, did menial chores which more socially prominent women rejected; then to be left out like this … Damn you again, Mel Bakersfeld! Damn the bitching snow! And screw that demanding, stinking marriagewrecking airport! The newspaperman, Derek Eden, was coming back

with Cindy's drink and one of his own. Threading his way across the room, he saw her watching him and smiled. He looked sure of himself. If Cindy knew men, he was probably calculating what his chances were of laying her tonight. Reporters, she supposed, knew all about neglected, lonely wives. Cindy (lid some calculating of her own concerning Derek Eden. Early thirties, she thought; old enough to be experienced, young enough to be taught a thing or two and to get excited, which was what Cindy liked. A good body from the outward look of him. He would be considerate, probably tender; would give as well as take. And he was available; even before he left to get the drinks he had already made that clear. Communication didn't take long between two reasonably sensitive people with a similar idea. A few minutes earlier she had weighed the alternatives of going home or to the airport. Now, it seemed, there might be a third choice. "There you are." Derek Eden handed her the drink. She glanced at it; there was a lot of Bourbon, and he had probably told the barman to pour heavily. Reallyl –men were so obvious. "Thank you." She sipped, and regarded him across the glass. Derek Eden raised his own drink and smiled. "Noisy in here, isrA it?" For a writer, Cindy thought, his dialogue was deplorably unoriginal. She supposed she was expected to say yes, then the next thing he would come up with would be, Why don't we go some place where it's quieter? The lines to follow were equally predictable. Postponing her response, Cindy took another sip of Bourbon. She considered. Of course, if Lionel were in town she would not have bothered with this man. But Lionel, who was her storm anchor at other times, and who wanted her to divorce Mel so that he, Lionel, could marry her, Cindy … Lionel was in Cincinnati (or was it Columbus?) doing whatever architects did when they went on business trips, and wouldn't be back for another ten days, perhaps longer. I Mel didn't know about Cindy and Lionel, at least not specifically, though Cindy had an idea that Mel suspected she had a lover somewhere. stashed away. She also had a parallel notion that Mel didn't mind much. It gave him an excuse to concentrate on the airport, to the total exclusion of herself; that goddanined airport, which had been fifty times worse than a mistress in their marriage. It had not always been that way. Early in their marriage, soon after Mel left the Navy, Cindy had been proud of his ambitions. Later, when Mel was rapidly ascending the lower rungs of aviation management, she was happy when promotions, new appointments, came his way. As Mel's stature grew, so did Cindy's-especially socially, and in those days they had social engagements almost every evening. On behalf of them both. Cindy accepted invitations to cocktail parties, private dinners, opening nights, charity soirees … and if there were two the same night, Cindy was expert at judging which was more important, and turning down the other. That kind of socializing, getting to know prominent people, was important to a young man on the rise. Even Mel saw that. He went along with everything Cindy arranged, without complaining. The trouble was, Cindy now realized, she and Mel bad two different long-term aims. Mel saw their social life as a means to fulfilling his professional ambitions; his career was the essential, the socializing a tool which eventually he would dispense with. Cindy, on the other hand., envisaged Mel's career as a passport to an even greater-and higher level-social life. Looking back, it sometimes occurred to her that if they had understood each other's point of view better in the beginning, they might have compromised. Unfortunately, they hadn't. Their differences began around the time that Mel-in addition to being general manager of Lincoln Tnternational-was elected president of the Airport Operators Council. When Cindy learned that her husband's activity and

influence now extended to Washington, D.C., she had been overjoyed. His subsequent summons to the White House, the rapport with President Kennedy, led Cindy to assume they would plunge forthwith into Washington society. In roseate daydreams she saw herself strolling –and being photographed-with Jackie or Ethel or Joan, at Hyannis Port or on the White House lawn. It hadn't happened; not any of it. Mel and Cindy had not become involved in Washington social life at all, although they could have done so quite easily. Instead, they begari-at Mel's insistence-dechning some invitations. Mel reasoned that his professional reputation was now such that he no longer needed to worry about being "in" socially, a status he had never cared for, anyway. When she caught on to what was happening, Cindy exploded, and they had a first-class row. That was a mistake, too. Mel would sometimes respond to reason, but Cindy's anger usually made him stand firm to the point of obstinacy. Their dispute raged for a week, Cindy becoming bitchier as it progressed, thus making things worse. Being bitchy was one of Cindy's failings, and she knew it. Half the time she didn't intend to be that way, but sometimes, faced with Mel's indifference, her fiery temper got the better of her-as it had on the telephone tonight. After the week-long argument, which never really ended, their quarrels became more frequent; they also stopped trying to conceal them from the children, which was impossible, anyway. Once-to the shame of them both-Roberta announced that in future after school she would be going to a friend's house first, "because when I stay home, I can't do my homework while you're fighting." Eventually a pattern was established. Some evenings Mel accompanied Cindy to certain social events which he bad agreed on in advance. Otherwise, he stayed longer bours at the airport and came home less frequently. Finding herself alone much more, Cindy concentrated on what Mel sneered at as her "junior league charities" and "silly social climbing." Well, maybe at times, Cindy thought, it did look silly to Mel. But she didn't have much else, and it so bappened she enjoyed the social status competition-which was what it was, really. It was all very well for a man to criticize; men had plenty of activities to occupy their time. In Mel's case there was his career, his airport, his responsibilities. What was Cindy supposed to do? Stay home all day and dust the house? Cindy had no illusions about herself so far as mental acuity went. She was no great intellect, and she knew that in lots of ways, mentally, she would never measure up to Mel. But then, that was nothing new. In their early years of marriage, Mel used to find her occasional mild stupidities amusing, though nowadays when he derided her-as he had taken to doing lately-he seemed to have forgotten that. Cindy was also realistic about her former career as an actress-she would never have made the grade to stardom, or have come close to it. It was true that, in the past, she sometimes implied that she might have done so if marriage had not ended her theatrical activity. But that was merely a form of selfdefense, a need to remind others-including Mel-that she was an individual as well as being the airport manager's wife. Within herself Cindy knew the truth– that as a professional actress she would almost certainly not have risen above bit parts. The involvement in social life, however-in the mise en scMe of local society-was something Cindy could handle. It gave her a sense of identity and importance. And although Mel scoffed, and denied that what Cindy had done wits an achievement, she had managed to climb, to be accepted by socially conspicuous people whom she would not have met otherwise, and to be involved in events like tonight's … except that on this occasion she needed Mel as escort, and Mel-thinking first of his goddamned airport, as always-had let her down. Mel, who had so much in the way of identity and prestige, bad never understood Cindy's need to carve out some kind of individuality for herself. She doubted if he ever would. Just the Kime, Cindy had gone ahead. She also had

plans for the future which she knew would entail a monstrous family battle if she and Mel stayed married. It was Cindy's ambition to have her daughter Roberta, and later Libby, presented as debutantes at the Passavant Cotillion, glittering apex of the Illinois deb season. As the girls' mother, Cindy herself would garner social status. She had once mentioned the notion casually to Met, who reacted angrily, "Over my dead body!" Debutantes and their silly, simpering mothers, he advised Cindy, belonged to an age that was gone. Debutante balls, he declared-and thank goodness there were few of them left-were an anachronistic perpetuation of a snobbery and class ,tructure which the nation was fortunately shedding, though-judging by people who still thought as Cindy did-not nearly fast enough. Mel wanted his children to gTow up (he told Cindy) with the knowledge that they were equal to others, but not with some conceited, misguided notion that they were socially superior. And so on. Unusual for Mel, whose policy declarations were normally brief and concise, he had gone on for some time. Lionel, on the other hand, thought the whole thing was a good idea. Lionel was Lionel Urquhart. At the moment he hovered alongside Cindy's life in the shape of a question mark. Curious]),, it was Mel who had brought Cindy and Lionel together to begin with. Mel had introduced them at a civic luncheon which Lionel was attending because of something architectural he had done for the city, and Mel was there because of the airport. The two men had known each other casually for years. Afterward, Lionel telephoned Cindy, and they met a few times for luncheons and dinners, then more frequently, and eventually for the ultimate intimacy between a man and a woman. Unlike many people who made a practice of extramarital sex, Lionel had taken the experience extremely seriously. lie lived alone, having been separated from his wife for several years, but was not divorced. Now he wanted to get a divorce, and have Cindy do the same, so they could marry. By this time, he knew that Cindy's own marriage was shaky. Lionel and his estranged wife had never had children a fact, he confided to Cindy, that he greatly regretted. It was not too late, he declared, for Cindy and himself to have a child if they married soon. Also, he would be more than happy to provide a home for Roberta and Libby, and would do his best to be a substitute father. Cindy had put off a decision for several reasons. Principally, she hoped that relations between herself and Mel would improve, making their marriage closer to what it used to be. She could not say with assurance that she was still in love with Mel; love, Cindy found, was something you became more skeptical about as you grew older. But at least she was used to Mel. He was there; so were Roberta and Libby; and, like many women, Cindy dreaded a major upheaval in her life. Initially, too, she believed that a divorce and remarriage would be damaging to her socially. On this point, however, she had now changed her mind. Plenty of people had divorces without dropping out of sight so– cially, even temporarily, and one saw wives with old husbands one week, new ones the next. Cindy even had the impression sometimes that not to have been divorced, at least once, was somewhat square. It was possible that marriage to Lionel might improve Cindy's status socially. Lionel was much more amenable to partying and entertaining than Mel. Also, the Urquharts were an old, respected city family. Lionel's mother still presided, dowager-like, over a decaying mansion near the Drake Hotel, where an antique butler ushered visitors in, and an arthritic maid brought afternoon tea on a silver tray. Lionel had taken Cindy there for tea one day. Afterward be reported that Cindy had made a good impression, and he was sure he could persuade his mother to sponsor Roberta and Libby as debutantes when the time came. There and then-because her differences with Mel had grown even more intense-Cindy might have

plunged ahead, committing herself to Lionel, except for one thing. Sexually, Lionel was a dying duck. He tried hard, and occasionally he managed to surprise her, but most of the times they made love he was like a clock whose mainspring is running down. He said gloomily one night, after an abortive session in the bedroom of his apartment, which had been frustrating for both of them, "You should have known me when I was eighteen; I was a young ram." Unfortunately, Lionel was now a long way from eighteen; he was forty-eight. Cindy envisaged that if she married Lionel, such limited sex as they now enjoyed as lovers would drift into nothingness when they came to live together. Of course, Lionel would try to make up in other ways-he was kind, generous, considerate-but was that enough? Cindy was far from being on the wane sexually; she had always been strongly sensual, and lately her desire and sexual appetite seemed to have grown. But even if Lionel failed in that area, she wasn't batting any better with Mel right now, so what was the difference? Overall, Lionel would give her more. Perhaps the answer was to marry Lionel Urquhart and do some bedding down on the side. The latter might be difficult, especially when she was newly married, but if she was cautious it could be managed. Other people she knew of-men and women, some in high placesdid the same thing to keep themselves satiated physicaUy, and their marriages intact. After all, she had suc– cceded in deceiving Mel. He might suspect her in a general sense, but Cindy was positive that Mel had no definite knowledge about Lionel or anyone else. Now, how about tonight? Should she go to the airport for a showdown with Mel, as she had considered earlier? Or should she let herself get involved for the evening with this newspaperman, Derek Eden, who was standing beside her waiting for an answer to his question. It occurred to Cindy that perhaps she could manage both. She smiled at Derek Eden. "TeU me again. What was it you said?»
«I said it was noisy in here.»
«Yes, it ii.»
«I wond,-red if we might skip the dinner and go somewhere quieter." Cindy could have laughed aloud. Instead, she nodded. "All right." She glanced around at the other hosts and guests of the Archidona Children's Relief Fund press party. The photographers had stopped taking pictures; so there was really no point in staying any longer. She could slip out quietly, and not be noticed. Derek Eden asked, "Do you have a car here, Cindy?" "No, do you?" Because of the weather, Cindy had come in a taxi. 'Yes. "All right," she said, "I won't leave here with you. But if you're waiting in your car, outside, I'll come through the main doors in fifteen minutes.»
«Better make it twenty minutes. I'll need to make a couple of phone calls.»
«Very well.»
«Do you have any preference? I mean where we'll ?1)
:, That's entirely up to you." He hesitated, then said, "Would you like dinner first?" She thought amusedly: the "first" was a message-to make quite sure she understood what she was getting into. "No," C~idy said. "I haven't time. I have to be somewhere else later." She saw Derek Eden's eyes glance down, then return to her face. She sensed the intake of his breath, and had the impression that be was marveling at his own good fortune. "You're the greatest," he said. "I'll only believe my good luck when you come out through those doors." With that, he turned away and slipped quietly from the La Salle Salon. A quarter of an hour later, unnoticed, Cindy followed him. She collected her coat and, as she left the Lake Michigan Ina, drew it closely around her. Outside it was

still snowing, and an icy, shrieking wind swept across the open spaces of the Lakeshore and the Outer Drive. The weather made Cindy remember the airport. A few minutes ago she had made a firm resolve: she would still go there, later tonight; but it was early yet-not quite half-past nine-and there was plenty of time-for everything. A porter forsook the shelter of the Inn doorway and touched his hat. "Taxi, ma'am?" "I don't think so." At that moment the lights of a car in the parking lot came on. It moved forward, skidding once on the loose snow, then came toward the door where Cindy was waiting. The car was a Chevrolet, several models old. She could see Derek Eden at the wheel. The porter held the car door open and Cindy got in. As the door slammed closed, Derek Eden said, "Sorry about the car being cold. I had to call the paper, then make some arrangements for us. I got here just ahead of 19 you. Cindy shivered, and pulled her coat even tighter. "Wherever we're going, I hope it's warm." Derek Eden reached across and took her hand. Since the hand was resting on her knee, he held that too. Briefly she felt his fingers move, then he returned his band to the wheel. He said softly, "You'll be warm. I promise." 7
Forty-five minutes before its scheduled departure time of 10 P.m., Trans America Airline Flight Two-The Golden Argosy, Captain Vernon Demerest commanding –was in the final stages of preparation for its five-thou– sand-mile, non-stop journey to Rome. General preparations for the flight had been under way for months and weeks and days. Others, more immediate, had continued for the past twenty-four hours. An airline flight from any major terminal is, in effect, like a river joining the sea. Before it reaches the sea, a river is fed by tributaries, originating far back in time and distance, each tributary joined along its length by others, either greater or smaller. At length, at the river's mouth, the river itself is the sum of everything which flowed into it. Translated into aviation terms, the river at the sea is an airliner at its moment of takeoff. The aircraft for Flight Two was a Boeing 707-320B Intercontinental Jetliner, registered number N-731-TA. It was powered by four Pratt & Wbitney turbofan jet engines, providing a cruising speed of six hundred and five miles per hour. The aircraft's range, at maximum weight, was six thousand miles, or the straight line distance from Iceland to Hong Kong. It carried a hundred and ninety-nine passengers and twenty-five thousand U.S. gallons of fuel-enough to fill a good-size swimming pool. The aircraft's cost to Trans America Airlines was six and a half rtillion dollars. The day before yesterday N-731-TA had flown from Diisseldorf, Germany, and, two hours out from Lincoln International, an engine overheated. As a precaution, the captain ordered it shut down. None of the aircraft's passengers were aware that they were operating with three engines instead of four; if necessary, the aircraft could have flown on one. Nor was the flight even late arriving. Trans America Maintenance, however, was advised by company radio. As a result, a crew of mechanics was waiting, and whisked the airplane to a hangar as soon as passengers and freight were disembarked. Even while taxiing to the hangar, diagnostic specialists were at work, seeking out the airplane's trouble, which they located quickly. A pneumatic duct-a stainless steel pipe around the affected engine-bad cracked and broken in flight. The immediate procedure was for the engine to be removed

and a replacement installed. That was relatively simple. More complicated was the fact that for several minutes before the overheating engine was shut down, extremely hot air must have escaped into the engine nacelle. This heat could conceivably have damaged one hundred and eight pairs of wires from the aircraft's electrical system. Close examination of the wires showed that while some had been heated, none apparently had suffered damage. If a similar condition had occurred within an automobile, bus, or truck, the vehicle would have been put back into service without question. But airlines took no such chances. It was decided that all one hundred and eight pairs of wires must be replaced. The work of replacement was highly skilled, but exacting and tcdious because only two men at a time could operate in the confined space of the engine nacelle. Moreover, cach pair of wires must be identified, then connected painstakingly to Cannon plugs. A non-stop, day-and-night effort was planned, with teams of electrical mechanics relieving each other. The entire job would cost Trans America Airlines thousands of dollars in skilled man-hours and lost revenue while the big aircraft was unproductive on the ground. But the loss was accepted without question, as all airlines accepted such losses in pursuit of high safety standards. The Boeing 707-N-731-TA-which was to have flown to th(~. West Coast and back before its flight to Rome, was taken out of service. Operations was advised, and hastily shuffled schedules to help bridge the gap. A connecting flight was canceled and several dozen passengers transferred to competitive airlines. There was no substitute aircraft. When it came to multimilliondollar jets, airlines did not carry spares. Operations, however, urged Maintenance to have the 707 ready for Flight Two to Rome, which was then thirty-six hours away from scheduled departure. An operations vice-president in New York personally called the Trans America base maintenance chief, and was told: "If we can get it ready for you, we will." A topnotch foreman and a crack crew of mechanics and elec– tricians were already on the job, all of them aware of the importince of fi~nishing quickly. A second crew, to relieve the others through the night, was being rounded up. Both crews would work extra hours until the job was done. Contrary to general belief, aircraft mechanics took a close interest in the operational flights of airplanes they serviced. After a complex job, or a rush one such as this, they would follow the progress of a particular air– plane to learn how their work had stood up. It was a source of satisfaction to them when, as usually happened, the airplane functioned well. Months later they might say lo each other, observing an airplane taxiing in, "There's old 842. Remember that time . . . and the trouble we had with her. I guess we cured it." Through the critical day and a half following discovery of the trouble with N-731-TA, work on the airplane, though slow by its nature, continued as speedily as possible. At length, three hours from Flight Two's departure time, the last of the hundred-odd pairs of wires was reconnected. It took another hour to replace the engine cowlings and for an engine run-up on the ground. Then, before the airplane could be accepted for service, an air test was required. By this time, urgent calls from Operations demanded: Would N-73 I –TA be ready for Flight Two or not? If not, would Maintenance for Chrissake say so, so Sales could be informed of a possible long delay, and passengers notified before they left their homes. His fingcrs crossed, and touching wood, the maintenance chief replied that, barring complications on the air test, the aircraft would be available on time. It was-but only just. The chief Trans America pilot at the base, who had been standing by for just that purpose, test flew the airplane, barreling up through the storm to clearer altitudes above. He reported on return: "You guys down here'd never know it, but the moon's still there," then certified N-731-TA as completely airworthy. Executive pilots like that kind of assignment; it

helped build up their needed flying hours without going far from their desks. There was so little time left when the chief pflot landed, that he taxied the airplane directly to gate forty-seven of the terminal, where-as Flight Two, The Golden A rgosy-it was to load. Thus Maintenance had come through-as Maintenance did so often-but no corners had been cut. Once the airplane was at its gate, knots of workers bustled in and around it like scurrying elves. Food was a major item to go aboard. Seventy-five minutes before departure time, Departure Control called the caterer's flight kitchen, ordering food for the flight, according to the number of passengers expected. To– night the first-class section of Flight Two would have only two vacant seats; the economy section would be three quarters full. First-class, as usual, was allocated six meals extra; economy had the same number of meals as passengers. Thus, first-class passengers could have a second dinner if they asked for it; economy passengers couldn't. Despite the exact count, a last-minute passenger would always get a meal. Spare meals-including Kosher meals-were available in lockers near the de– parture gate. If an unexpected passenger went aboard as doors were closing, his food tray was passed in after him. Liquor stocks, requiring a signed stewardess receipt, came aboard too. Liquor for first-class passengers were free; tourist passengers paid a dollar a drink (or the equivalent in foreign currency) unless they took advantage of a piece of inside information. The information was that stewardesses were issued almost no change, sometimes none, and where a stewardess could not make change, her instructions were to give the pas– senger his or her drinks free. Some regular travelers had drunk free for years in tourist class, merely by proffering a fifty– or twenty-dollar bill and insisting they had nothing smaller. At the lame time that the food and liquor went aboard, other commissary supplies were checked and replenished There were several hundred items, ranging from babies' diapers, blankets, pillows, airsick bags, and a Gideon Bible to accessories like "Tray, beverage service, 8-hole, qty. 5." All were expendable. At the conclusion of a flight, airlines never bothered checking inventories. Whatever was missing was replaced without question, which was why passengers who walked from an airplane with anything portable were seldom stopped. Included in commissary supplies were magazines and newspapers. Newspapers were usually available on flights-with an exception. The Trans America commissary had a standing order: if a newspaper front page featured an air disaster, the newspapers were not to go aboard, but were thrown away. Most other airlines had the same rule. Tonight, on Flight Two, there were plenty of newspapers. The principal news was weather-the effect, on the entire Midwest, of the three-day winter storm. Baggage was now coming aboard Flight Two as passengers weie beginning to check in. When a passenger saw his bag disappear at the check-in counter it went, by a series of conveyor belts, to a room deep below the departure gates which baggage men privately called "the lion's den." It acquired that name because (so baggage men confided after several drinks) only the brave or innocent would allow a bag they cared about to enter here. Some bags as saddened owners could testifycame into tLe lion's den and were never seen again. In the d(-n, an attendant on duty watched each bag arrive. According to its destination label, he flicked a lever on a panel and, a moment later, an automatic arm reached out and grabbed the bag, setting it beside others for the sam– flight. From this point, and others, a crew of several men transferred all bags to the proper airplanes. It was ar, excellent system-when it worked. Unfortunately, it often didn't. Bag1c,age hand] ing-airlines conceded privately-was the least efficient part of air travel. In an age where human ing(nuity could place a capsule the size of a houseboat in outer space, it was a fact that an airline

passenger's bag could not be counted on to arrive safely at Pine Bluff, Arkansas, or Minneapolis-St. Paul, or even at the same time as the passenger. An astounding amount of airline baggage-at least one bag in every hundred-went to wrong destinations, was delayed, or lost entirely. Executives pointed woefully to the many opportunities for human error which existed with baggage handling. Efficiency experts periodically examined airline baggage systems, and periodically they were improved. Yet no one had come up with a system which was infallible, or even close to it. The result was that all airlines employed staffs, at every major terminal, whose job was solely to trace missing baggage. Such staffs were seldom idle. An experienced, cagey traveler did the best he could by making sure that the tags which agents or porters put on his bags when he checked in showed his correct destination. Often they didn't. With surprising fre– quency, wrong tags were slapped on in baste, and had to be changed when the error was pointed out. Even then, when the bags disappeared from sight, there was the sense of having entered a lottery, and at that point the traveler could only pray that some day, somewhere, he would be reunited with his luggage again. Tonight, at Lincoln International-though no one knew it yet-the baggage for Flight Two was already incomplete. Two bags, which should have gone to Rome, were at this moment being loaded aboard a flight for Milwaukee. Freight was now going aboard Flight Two in a steady stream. So was mail. Tonight there were nine thousand pounds of mail in colored nylon bags, some for Italian cities for onward transmission to faraway places, whose names read like pages from Marco Polo … Zanzibar, Khartoum, Mombassa, Jerusalem, Athens, Rhodes, Calcutta … The heavier-tban-usual mail load was a bonus for Trans America. A flight of British Overseas Airways Corporation scheduled to leave shortly before Trans America Fli,-,ht Two, had just announced a three-hour delay. The post office ramp supervisor, who kept con– stant watch on schedules and delays, promptly ordered a switch of mail from the BOAC airliner to Trans America. The British airline would be unhappy because carriage of mail was highly profitable, and competition for post office business keen. All airlines kept uniformed representatives at airport post offices, their job to keep an eye on the flow of mail and insure that their own airline got a "fair share"-or more-of the outgoing volume. Post office supervisors sometimes had favorites among the airline men, and saw to it that business came their way. But in cases of delay, friendships didn't count. At such moments there was an inflexible rule: the mail went by the faster route. Inside thc terminal, at lower level, and a few hundred feet from the Boeing 707 aircraft which was now Flight Two, was Trans America Control Center (Lincoln International). The center was a bustling, jam-packed, noisy conglomeration of people, desks, telephones, teletypes, Tel Autographs, private line TV, and information boards. Its personnel were responsible for directing the preparation of Flight Two and all other Trans America flights. On occasions like tonight, with schedules chaotic because of the storm, the atmosphere was pandemonic, the scene resembling an old-time newspaper city room, as seen by Hollywood. In a corner of the control center was the Load Control Desk-the desk top invisible beneath a sea of paper-occupied by a young, bearded man with the improbable name of Fred Phirmphoot. In his spare time Phirmphoot was an amateur abstract painter; recently he had taken to throwing paint on canvas, then riding over it with a child's tricycle. He was reputed to dabble-at weekends-with LSD, and also suffered from body odor. The last was a constant annoyance to his fellow workers in the control center-hot and stuffy tonight despite the cold, bitter weather outside-and more than once Fred Phirmphoot had been told that he should take a bath more often. Yet, paradoxically, Phirmphoot had a keen mathematician's mind, and his superiors swore that he was one of the best load control men in the business. At the

moment he was masterminding the loading of Flight Two. An airplane (Fred Phirmphoot would occasionally explain to his bored beat friends), "She's a bird that's a teeter-totler, man. If you ain't hep, that airplane chick'11 teeter or totter, maybe the twain; but me, baby, I don't let it none." The trick was to distribute weight correctly through the airplane so that its fulcrum point and center of gravity were at predetermined places; hence, the aircraft would be balanced, and stable in the air. Fred Phirm– phoot's job was to calculate how much could be stowed aboard Flight Two (and other flights) and where. No mailbag, no individual piece of freight, went into any position in the aircraft hold without his say-so. At the same time, he was concerned with cramming in as much as possible. "Illinois to Rome, man," Fred was apt to declare, "that's long spaghetti. It don't pay off in marmalade." He worked with charts, manifests, tabulations, an adding machine, last-minute messages, a walkie-taMe, three telephones-and an uncanny instinct. The ramp supervisor had just asked, by walkie-talkie, for permission to load another three hundred pounds of mail in the forward compartment. "Roger-dodger," Fred Phirmphoot acknowledged. He shuffled papers, checking the passenger manifest which had lengthened in the past two hours. Airlines allowed an average weight for passengers-a hundred and seventy pounds in winter, ten pounds less in summer. The average always worked out, with one exception: when a football team was traveling. The husky ballplayers threw all calculations out of joint, and at that time load dispatchers added their own estimates, which varied according to how well they knew the team. Baseball and hockey players were no problem; being smaller they fitted the average. Tonight the manifest showed that Flight Two had only normal passengers. "It's okay for the mail, baby," Fred Phirmphoot replied into the walkie-talkie, "but I want that coffin moved back to the rear compartment; from the look of the weight slip, that dead guy was a fatso. Also, there's a packaged generator from Westinghouse. Locate that midships; the rest of the freight can fit around it." Phirmpboot's problems had just been added to by an order from the Crew of Flight Two that an extra two thousand pounds of fuel were to be added for taxfing and ground running, in addition to the normal reserve for that purpose. Out on the airfield tonight, all aircraft were being subjected to long delays, with engines running, before takeoff. A jet engine, operating at ground level, drank fuel Re a thirsty elephant, and Captains Dernerest and Harris didn't want to waste precious gallonage which they might require on the way to Rome. At the same time, Fred Phirmphoot had to calculate that all that extra fuel, which was now being pumped into the wing tanks of N-731-TA, might not be burned before takeoff; therefore, some of it could be added to the total takeoff weight. The question was, how much? There were safety limits for gross weights at takeoff, yet with every airline flight the objective was to carry as much as po ssible, to earn maximum revenue. Fred Phirmphoot's dirty fingernails danced over his adding machine, making hasty computations. He pondered the result, fingering his beard, his body odor rather worse than usual. The decision about extra fuel was one of many decisions which Captain Vernon Demerest had been makini: for the past half hour. Or rather, he had been letting Captain Anson Harris make the decisions, then-as check captain with the final responsibility-Demerest approved them. Vernon Demerest was enjoying his passive role tonight-having someone else do most of the work, yet relinquishing none of his own authority. So far Dernerest had not faulted any of Anson Harris's decisions, which was not surprising since Harris's experience and seniority were almost as great as Demerest's own. Harris had been dour and huffy when they met for the second time tonight in the crew room at the Trans America hai~gar. Dernerest noted with amusement that Anson Harris was wearing a regulation shirt, though it was on the s.-iiall side, and every now and then Harris's

hand wotild go up to ease the collar. Captain Harris had managed to switch shirts with an obliging first officer who later related the story zestfully to his own captain. But afier a few minutes, Harris relaxed. A professional to his bushy, graying eyebrows, he was aware that no flight crew could function efficiently with hostility in the cockpit. In the crew room both captains inspected their mail slots, and there was a pile of mail as usual, some of it company bulletins which must be read before tonight's flight. The remainder-memos from the chief pilot, medical branch, the research department, cartographer's office, and the rest, they would take home to go through later. While Anson Harris inserted a couple of amendments in his fligtit manuals-which Demerest had announced his intenti,)n of checking-Vernon Dernerest studied the Crew Schedule Board. The Schedule Board was made up monthly. It showed the dates on which captains and first and second officers would fly, and on which routes. There was a similar board for stewardesses in their crew room down the hall. Every pilot bid, each month, for the route he wanted to fly, and those who were most senior got first choice. Demerest invariabl ' Y got what he bid for; so did Gwen Meighen, whose seniority among the stewardesses was correspondingly high. It was the bidding system which made it possible for pilots and stewardesses to make mutual layover plans much as Demerest and Gwen had done in advance of tonight. Anson Harris had finished the hasty amending of his flight manuals. Vernon Dernerest grinned. "I guess your manuals are okay, Anson. I've changed my mind; I won't inspect them." Captain Harris gave no sign, except a tightening around his mouth. The second officer for the flight, a young two-striper named Cy Jordan, had joined them. Jordan was flight engineer; dso a qualified pilot. He was lean and an– gular, with a hollow-cbeeked, mournful face, and always looked as if he needed a good meal. Stewardesses heaped extra food upon him, but it never seemed to make any difference. The first officer who usually flew as second-in-command to Dernerest, tonight had been told to stay home, though under his union contract he would receive full pay for the round-trip flight. In the first officer's absence, Demerest would do some of the first officer duties, Jordan the rest. Anson Harris would do most of the flying. "Okay," Demerest told the other two, "let's get moving." The crew bus, snow-covered, its windows steamed inside, was waiting at the hangar door. The five stewardesses for Flight Two were already in the bus, and there was a chorus of "Good evening, Captain . . . good evening. Captain," as Demerest and Anson Harris clambered in, followed by Jordan. A gust of wind. and snow flurries. accompanied the pilots. The bus driver hastily closed the door. "Hi. girls!" Vernon Demerest waved cheerfully, and winked at Gwen. More conventionally, Anson Harris added a "Good evening." The wind buffeted the bus as the driver felt his way warily around the plowed perimeter track the snowbanks high on either side. Word had filtered around the airport of the experience of the United Air Lines food truck earlier in the evening, and all vehicle drivers were beinv cautious as a result. As the crew bus neared its destination, the bright terminal lights were a beacon in the darkness. Farther out on the airfield a steady stream of aircraft was taking off and landing. The bus stopped and the crew scrambled out, diving for the shelter of the nearest door. They were now in the Trans America wing, of the terminal at lower level. The passenger departure gates-including gate forty-seven, where Fligbt Two was being readied-were above. The stewardesses went off to complete their own preflight procedures while the three pilots beaded for the Trans America international dispatch office.

The dispatcher, as always, had prepared a folder with the complex information which the flight crew would need. He spread it out on the dispatch office counter and the three pilots pored over it. Behind the counter a half-dozen clerks were assembling world-wide information on aLrways, airport conditions, and weather which other international flights of Trans America would require tonight. A similar dispatch room for domestic flights was down the ball. It was at that point that Anson Harris tapped a preliminary load report with his pipestem and asked for the extra two thousand pounds of fuel for taxiing. He glanced iu the second officer, Jordan, who was checking fuel consumption graphs, and Demerest. Both nodded agreemew, and the dispatcher scribbled an order which would be relayed to the ramp fueling office. The company weather forecaster joined the other four. He was a pale young man, scholarly behind rimless glasses, who looked as if he rarely ventured out into the weather personally. Demercst inquired, "What have the computers given us toniglA, John? Something better than here, I hope." More and more, airline weather forecasts and flight plans were being spewed out by computers. Trans America and other airlines still maintained a personal element, with individuals liaising between computers and flight crew&, but predictions were that the human weathermen would disappear soon. The foiecaster shook his head as he spread out several facsimile weather charts. "Nothing better until you're ovi.-r mid-Atlantic, I'm afraid. We have some improved weather coming in here soon, but since you're going east you'll catch up with what's already left us. The storm we're in now extends all the way from here to NewfoLndland, and beyond." He used a pencil point to trace Crie storm's wide swathe. "Along your route, incidentally, Detroit Metropolitan and Toronto airports are both telow limits and have closed down." The dispatcher scanned a teletype slip which a clerk had handtd him. lie interjected, "Add Ottawa; they're closing riglit now.»
«Beyond raid-Atlantic," the weatherman said, "everything looks good. There are scattered disturbances across southern Europe, as you can see, but at your altitudes they shouldn't bother you. Rome is clear and sunny, and should stay that way for several days." Captain Dernerest leaned over the southern Europe map. "How about Naples?" The weatherman looked puzzled. "Your flight doesn't go there.»
«No, but I'm interested.»
«It's in the same high pressure system as Rome. The weather will be good." Demerest grinned. The young forecaster launched into a dissertation concerning iemperatures, and high and low pressure areas, and winds aloft. For the portion of the flight which would be over Canada he recommended a more northerly course than usual to avoid strong headwinds which would be encountered farther south. The pilots listened attentively. Whether by computer or human calculation, choosing the best altitudes and route was like a game of cht.ss in which intellect could triumph over nature. All pilots were trained in such matters; so were company weather forecasters, more attuned to individual airline needs than their counterparts in the U. S. Weather Bw eau. "As soon as your fuel load permits," the Trans America fonz~caster said, "I'd recommend an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet." The secotid officer checked his graphs; before N731-TA could climb that high, they would have to bum off some of their initially heavy fuel load. After a lew moments the second officer reported, "We should be able to reach thirty-three thousand around Det roit.» Anson Harris nodded. His gold ballpoint pen was racing as he filled in a flight plan which, in a few minutes' time, lie would file with air traffic control. ATC would then tell him whether or not the altitudes he sought were available and, if not, what others he might have. Vernon Demerest, who normally would have pre– pared his Own flight Plan, glanced over the form when Captain Harris finished, then signed it. All preparations for Flight Two, it seemed, were going well. Despite the storm, it appeared as if The Golden Argosy, pride of Trans America, would depart on time. It was Gwen Meighen who met the three pilots as they came aboard the aircraft. She asked, "Did you hear?" Anson Harris said, "Hear what?" "We're delayed an hour. The gate agent just had word.»
«Damn!" Vernon Demerest said. "Goddam!" "Apparently," Gwen said, "a lot of passengers are on their way, but have been held up-I guess because of the snow. Some have phoned in, and Departure Control decided to allow them extra time." Anson Harris asked, "Is boarding being delayed too?" "Yes, Captain. The flight hasn't been announced. It won't be for another half-hour, at least." Harris shrugged. "Oh, well; we might as well relax." He moved toward the flight deck. Gwen volunteered, "I can bring you all coffee, if you 35 like. "I'll get coffee in the terminal," Vernon Demerest said. He nodded to Gwen. "Why don't you come with me?" She hesitated. "Well, I could.»
«Go ahead," Harris said. "One of the other girls can bring mine, and there's plenty of time." A minute or two later, Gwen walked beside Vernon Demerest, her heels clicking as she kept pace with his strides down the Trans America departure wing. They were heading for the main terminal concourse. Demerest was thinking: the hour's delay might not be a bad tbing, after all. Until this moment, with the essentiat business of Flight Two to think about, he had pushed all thoughts of Gwen's pregnancy from his mind. But, over coffee and a cigarette, there would be a chance to continue the discussion they had begun ear– lier. Perhaps, now, the subject which he bad not broached before-an abortion-could be brought into the open. 8
Nervously, 1). 0. Guerrero lit another cigarette from the stub of his previous one. Despite his efforts to control the motion of his bands, they trembled visibly. He was agitated, tense, anxious. As he bad earlier, while putting his dynamit,,– bomb together, be could feel rivulets of perspiration on his face and beneath his shirt. The cause of his distress was time-the time remaining between now and the departure of Flight Two. It was running out, remorselessly, like sand from an hourglass; and much-too much-of the sand was gone. Guerrero was in a bus en route to the airport. Half an hour ago the bus had entered the Kennedy Expressway, from which point, normally, there would have been a swift, fifteen-minute ride to Lincoln International. But the expressway, like every other highway in the state, was impeded by the storm, and jammed with traffic. At moments the traffic was halted, at other times merely inching along. Before departure from downtown, the dozen or so bus passengers-all destined for Flight Two-had been told of their flight's delay by one hour. Even so, at the present rate of progress, it appeared as if it might take another two hours, perhaps three, to get to the airport. Others in the bus were worried, too. Like D. 0. Guerrero, they had checked in at the Trans America downtown terminal in the Loop. Then, they had been in plenty of time, but now, in view of the

mounting delay, were wondering aloud whether Flight Two would wait for them indefinitely, or not. The bus driver was not encouraging. In reply to questions, he declared that usually, if a bus from a downtown terminal was late, a flight was held until the bus arrived. But when conditions got really bad, like tonight, anything could happen. The airline might figure that the bus would be held up for hours more-as it could beand that the flight should go. Also, the driver added, judging by the few people in the bus, it looked as if most passengers for Flight Two were out at the airport already. ThaL often happened with international flights, he explained; relatives came to see passengers off, and drove them out by car. The discussion went back and forth across the bus, though D. 0. Guerrero, his spindly body hunched into his seat, took no part in it. Most of the other passengers appeared to be tourists, with the exception of a voluble Italian family-a man and woman with several children –who were talking animatedly in their own language. "If I were you, folks, I wouldn't worry," the bus driver had announced a few minutes earlier. "The traffic ahead looks as if it's loosenin' up some. We might just make it." So far, however, the speed of the bus had not increased. D. 0. Guerrero bad a double seat section, three rows back from the driver, to himself. The all-important attach6 case was held securely on his lap. He eased forward, as he bad done several times already, straining to peer ahead into the darkness beyond the bus; all he could see, through the twin arcs cleared by the big, slapping windshield wipers, was what appeared to be an endless string of vehicle lights, disappearing into the falling snow. Despite his sweating, his pale, thin lips were dry; he moistened them with his tongue. For Guerrero, "just making it" to the airport in time for Flight Two would simply not do. He needed an extra ten or fifteen minutes, at least, to buy flight insurance. He cursed himself for not having gone out to the airport sooner, and bought the flight insurance he needed in plenty of time. In his original plan, purchasing the insurance at the last minute, and thus minimizing any chance of inquiry, seemed a good idea. What he had not foreseen was the kind of night this had turned out to bethough he ought to have foreseen it, remembering the time of year. It was just that kind of thing-overlooking some significant, variable factor-which had dogged D. 0. Guerrero through his business enterprises, and time after time brought grandiose schemes to naught. The trouble was, he realized, whenever he made plans, he convinced himself that everything would go exactly as he hoped; therefore he failed to allow for the unexpected. More to the point, he thought bitterly, he never seemed able to learn from past experience. He supposed that when he got to the airport-assurning Flight Two had not already left-he could go to the Trans America flight counter and announce himself as being present. Then he would insist on being allowed time to buy flight insurance before the flight took off. But it would involve the one thing he desperately wanted to avoid: drawing attention to himself, in the same way that he had drawn attention already-and for the stupidest omission he could possibly have made. He had failed to bring any baggage, other than the small, slim attach6 case in which he was carrying the dynamite bomb. At the check-in counter downtown the ticket agent had asked, "Is that your baggage, sir?" He pointed to a large pile of suitcases belonging to a man in line behind. "No." D. 0. Guerrero hesitated, then held up the small attacb6-briefcase. "I . . . er. . . . don't have anything except this." The agent's eyebrows went up. "No baggage for a trip to Rome, sir? You really are traveling light." He motioned to the attach6 case. "Do you wish to check that?" "No, thank you." All D. 0. Guerrero wanted at that moment wai his airline ticket, and to get away from the counter, and secure an inconspicuous seat on the airport bus. But the agent glanced curiously at him a second time, and Guerrero knew that, from this moment onward, he would be remembered. He had stamped

himself indelibly on the ticket agent's memory-all because b,, forgot to bring a suitcase, which he could so easily hav.,– done. Of course, the reason he bad not done so was instinctive. D. 0. Guerrero knew-as others did not-that Flight Two would never reach its destination; therefore no baggage was necessary. But he ought to have had baggage, as a cover. Now, at the inquiry which would inevitably follow the flight's loss, the fact that one passenger-himself-had boarded without baggage, would be remembered and commented on. It would underscore whatever other suspicions about D. 0. Guerrero investigators might, by that time, have. But if there were no wreckage, he reminded himself, what could they prove? Nothing! The flight insurance people would have to pay. Would the bus never get to the airport? The children from the Italian family were running noisily up and down the aisle of the bus. A few seats back, the mother was still jabbering in Italian to the husband; she held a baby which was crying lustily. Neither the woman nor the man seemed aware of the baby's crying. Guerrero's nerves were stretched and raw. He wanted to seize the baby and throttle it; to sbout to the others, Shut up! Shut up! Couldn't they sense? . . . Didn't the fools know that this was no time for stupid chattering? . . . No time, when Guerrero's whole future-at least, his family's future . . . the success of the plan so painstakingly worked out . . . everything, everything, was predicated on getting to the airport with time to spare. One of the running children-a boy of five or six, with an attractive, intelligent face-stumbled in the aisle and fell sideways into the empty seat beside D. 0. Guerrero. In regaining his balance, the boy's hand went out, striking the attach6 case still on Guerrero's lap. The case slipped sideways and Guerrero grabbed it. He managed to stop it before it fell, then turned to the child, his face contorted to a snarl, his hand raised to strike. Wide-eyeO,, the boy regarded him. He said softly, "SCUSU, With an erfort, Guerrero controlled himself. Others in the bus might be waicbing. If he were not careful, be would draw attention to himself again. Groping for some of the words he had picked up from Italians who had worked for him on construction projects, he said awkwardly, "t troppo rumorosa." The child nodded gravely. "Si." He stood where he was. "All right," Guerrero said. "That's all. Get lost! Se ne vada!" "Si," the boy said again. His eyes were uncomfortably direct, and ' ~or a moment Guerrero was reminded that this child, and others, would be aboard Flight Two. Well, it made no difference. There was no point in be coming sentimental; nothing would change his intentions now. Besides, when it happened, when he pulled the string of the attach6 case and the airplane ripped apart, everything would be over quickly, before anyone – espe cially the children-had time to know. The boy i~urned away, and went back in the bus to his mother. At last!-the bus was moving faster . now it was speeding up! Ahead, through the windshield, D. 0. Guerrero could see that the traffic had thinned, other lights in front were moving quickly. They might … just might . . . arrive at the airport in time for him to buy flight insurance without any need to arouse attention. But it was going to be close. He hoped the insurance booth would not be busy. He notic,-d that the children from the Italian family had returned to their seats, and he congratulated himself about not Mtracting attention a moment ago. If he had struck the (hild-as he almost had-people would have made a fusi. At least he had avoided that. It was still a pity that h(. had got himself noticed when checking in, though when he thought about it, he supposed that no irreparable harm bad been done. Or had i-? A new worry nagged him.

Supposing the ticket agent who had been curious about the absence of any baggage remembered the incident again, after the bus bad gone. Guerrero knew he had appeared nervous at the time; supposing the agent had noticed, had later become suspicious. The agent would talk to someone else, a super-visor perhaps, who might already have telephoned the airport. Even at this moment, someone-the police?-might be waiting for the bus to arrive; to interrogate D. 0. Guerrero; to open and inspect his single, small attach6 case with the damning evidence inside. For the first time Guerrero wondered what would happen if he were caught. It would mean arrest, imprisonment. Then he thought: before he would allow that to happen . . . if he were accosted, if exposure seemed imminent . . . he would pull the loop of string on the outside of the case and blow himself, along with everyone nearby, to pieces. His hand went out. Beneath the attach6 case handle he touched the loop of string and held it. It was reassuring . . . Now, for the moment, he would try to think of something else. He wondered if Inez had yet found his note. She had.
Inez Guerrero came tiredly into the miserable 51st Street apartment, and slipped off her shoes, which had been hurting, and her coat and kerchief, which were soaked from melted snow. She was aware of a cold coming, and an all-engulfing weariness. Her work as a waitress had been harder than usual today, the customers meaner, the tips smaller. Besides, she was not yet accustomed to it, which took a greater toll. Two years ago, when the Guerreros lived comfortably in a congenial home in the suburbs, Inez, though never beautiful, had been a pleasant-appearing, well-preserved woman. Since then, ravages of time and circumstance had come swiftly to her face, so that where once she seemed younger than she was, now she looked considerably older. Tonight, if Inez had been in a house of her own, she would have sought the solace of a hot bath, which always seemed to relax her in times of trouble– of which there had been plenty in the Guerreros' married life. Ahliough there was a bathroom of sorts down the hall, which three apartments shared, it was unheated and drafty, with old paint peeling, and a gas water heater which had to be appeased with quarters. The thought of it defeated her. She decided she would sit still for a while in the shabby living room, then go to bed. She had no idea where her husband was. It was some time before she noticed the note on the living-room table. I won't be home for a few days. I'm going away. I expe(t to have some good news soon which will sui prise you.
Few things surprised Inez where her husband was concerned; "ne had always been unpredictable and, more recently, irrational. Good news would certainly be a surprise, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that there would be any. Inez bad watched too many of her husband's ambitious schemes totter and collapse to believe in tho likelihood of one more possibility succeeding. But the first part of the note puzzled her. Where was D.O. going "for a few days"? Equally mystifying: What did he intend to use for money? The night before last the Guerreros pooled the last of the money they had in the world. The total was twenty-two dollars and some cents. Besides the money, they had only one thing left worth pawning; it belonged to Inez-her mother's ring, and so far sne had resisted parting with it. It might have to go soon. Of the twenty-two dollars-odd, Inez bad taken fourteen, to use for food and as a token payment toward the rent. She bad seen the desperation in D.O.'s face as he pocketed the remaining eight dollars and small change. Inez decided to stop puzzling, and to go to bed as she had planned. She was too weary even to worry about how her children were faring, though she had not heard from her sister in Cleveland-with whom the children were staying-for more than a week. She turned out the

single light in the living room and went into the cramped, shabby bedroom. She had trouble finding her nightgown. Some of the contents of the rickety dressing chest seemed to have been moved around. Eventually she found the nightgown in a drawer with three of D.O.'s shirts; they were the last he had, so wherever he had gone, he had not taken a change of clothing. Under one of the shirts a folded sheet of yellow paper caught her eye. She took it out and opened it. The yellow sheet was a printed form which had been filled in by typewriter; what Inez was holding was a carbon copy. When she saw what it was, she sat down, unbelieving, on the bed. To make sure she had not misunderstood, she read the contents of the form again. It was a time-payment contract between Trans America Airlines and D. 0. "Buerrero"-the name, she noticed, was misspelled. The contract acknowledged that "Buerrero" had received a round-trip ticket to Rome, economy class; that he had made a down payment of forty-seven dollars, and hereby promised to pay the balance of four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, plus interest, in installments over twenty-four months. It didn't make sense. Inez stared dazedly at the yellow form. Within her mind, questions chased one another. Why did D.O. need an air ticket at all? And if a ticket, why to Rome? And what about the money? He couldn't possibly pay the installments, though that part, at least, was understandable. There had been plenty of other obligations D. 0. Guerrero incurred that he couldn't meet; debts never disturbed him, as they did Inez. But apart from the debt, where had the forty-seven dollars down payment come from? The form acknowledged receipt; the money had been paid. Yet two nights ago, D.O. declared that he had no more money than they pooled, and whatever else he might do, Inez knew he never Iii-, I to her. Yet that forty-seven dollars came from somewhere. Where? Suddenly, she remembered the ring; it was gold with a single diamond in a platinum setting. Until a week or two ago, Inez wore it regularly, but recently her hands had swollen and she took the ring off, leaving it in a small box in one of the bedroom drawers. For the second time tonight she searched the drawers. The box was there-empty. Obviously, to get the forty-seven dollars, D.O. had pawned the ring. Her first reaction was regret. To Inez, the ring had meant something; it was a last tenuous link between herself and the past, her scattered family, her dead mother whose memory she revered. More realistically: the ring, though not exceptionally valuable, had been a last resort. While it was there, there was the knowledge that however bad things became, the ring would always provide a few days more of living. Now it was gone, and along with it, the minor reassurance. Yet knowing where the down payment came from for the airline ticket, still provided no answer to the question-why'. Why an air journey? Why to Rome? Still seated on the bed, Inez applied herself to thinking carefully. For the moment, she ignored her tiredness. Inez was not a highly intelligent woman. If she had been, probably she would not have endured marriage to D. 0. Guerrero for almost twenty years; and even now, if better equipped mentally, she would have been more than a coffeehouse waitress at a paltry wage. But occasionally, through slow, careful reasoning aided by instinct, Inez could reach right conclusions. Especial.ly where her husband was concerned. Now, instinct more than reason warned her that D. 0. Guerrero was in trouble-more serious trouble than they had yet encountered. Two things convinced her: his irrationality of late, and the length of his intended journey; in the Guerrero's present circumstances, only some monumental, desperate undertaking could require a trip to Rome. She went to the living room and returned with the note, which she read again. Over the years there had been many notes; Inez sensed that this one did not mean what it said. Beyond that, her reasoning failed to go. But she had

the feeling, a conviction growing as each minute passed, that there must be something, ought to be something, she should do. It did not occur to Inez to abdicate entirely; to abandon D.O. to the outcome of whatever new folly he might have begun. She was essentially a simple soul with an uncomplicated nature. Eighteen years ago she accepted D. 0. Guerrero "for better or worse." That it had turned out to be mostly "worse" did not, as Inez saw it, change her responsibility as a wife. Her cautious, measured reasoning continued. She supposed the first thing to do was find out if D.O. had already left by air; if not, perhaps there was time to stop him. Inez had no idea how much of a start D.O. had, or how many hours ago his note to her was written. She looked again at the yellow time-payment form; it said nothing about when the flight would be, or its departure time, thOLIgh she could telephone the airline-Trans America. As quickly as she could, Inez began putting on the clothes which, a few minutes earlier, she had taken off. Her outdoor shoes hurt her feet again, and her coat was still sodden and uncomfortable as she went down the narrow stairs from the apartment to the street. In the mean lower hallway, snow had blown under the outer door and covered the bare boards of the floor. Outside, Inez saw, the snow was even deeper than when she came in. The cold, bleak wind assaulted her as she left the building's shelter, whipping more snow into her face. There \vas no telephone in the Guerreros' apartment, and although Inez could have used a pay phone in the lunch counter on the lower floor, she wanted to avoid a meeting with the proprietor, who was also the building landlord. He bad threatened eviction tomorrow if the Guerreros' arrears of rent were not paid in full. That was something else which Inez bad pushed from her mind tonight, and which-if D.O. failed to return by morning-she would have to face alone. A drugstore, with a pay phone, was a block and a half away. Picking her way through deep snow on uncleared sidewalks, Inez headed there. The time was a quarter to ten. The drugstore telephone was in use by two teen-age girls, and In,-z waited almost ten minutes for it to be free. Then, when she dialed the Trans America number, a recording informed her that all lines to Reservations were busy, and would she please wait. She waited while the recording repeated itself several times before a brisk woman's voice declared that she was Miss Young, and could she help? "Please," Inez said, "I want to ask about flights to Rome." As if a button bad been pressed, Miss Young replied that Trans America had direct non-stop flights from Lincoln International to Rome on Tuesdays and Fridays; through New York there were connections daily, and did the caller wish to make a reservation now? "No," Inez said. "No, I'm not going. It's about my husband. Did you say there was one on Fridays … a flight … tonight?" "Yes, madam-our Flight Two, The Golden Argosy. It departs at ten o'clock local time, except that tonight the flight has been delayed one hour, due to weather conditions." Inez could see the drugstore clock. By now, it was nearly five past ten. She said quickly, "You mean the flight hasn't gone yet?" "No, madam, not yet.»
«Please . . ." As she often did, Inez found herself groping for words. "Please, it's important for me to find out if my husband is on that flight. His name is D. 0. Guerrero, and. . .»
«I'm soM,; we're not permitted to give out that information." Miss Young was polite but firm. "I don't think you understand, miss. It's my husband I'm asking al)out. This is his wife.»
«[ do unjerstand, Mrs. Guerrero, and I'm sorry; but it's a conipz.ny rule." Miss Youag, and others like her, were well drilled in

the rule and understood its reason. Many businessmen took secrctaries or mistresses along on air trips, listing them as wives, to take advantage of family plan fare reductions. In the past, a few suspicious, genuine wives had checked up, causing trouble for the airlines' customers-the men. Later, it was the men who complained bitterly about breaches of confidence, with the result that airlines nowadays made a policy of not disclosing passenger names. Inez began, "Isn't there any way . . "There really isn't.»
«Oh, dear.»
«Do I understand," Miss Young inquired, "that you think your husband might be leaving on Flight Two, but you're not sure?" "Yes, that's right.»
«Then the only thing you might do, Mrs. Guerrero, is to go out to the airport. Probably the flight hasn't boarded yet; so if your husband is there, you could see him. Even if the flioht has boarded, they might help you at the departure gate. But you'd have to hurry.»
«All rieht," Inez said. "If that's the only thing, I suppose Id better try." She had no idea how she would get to the airport-more than twenty miles a.way-in less than aa hour, in the storm. "Just a moment." Miss Young sounded hesitant, her voice more human, as if some of Inez's distress had penetrated through the phones. "I really shouldn't do this, Mrs. Guerrero, but I'll give you a little tip.»
«Please. ' "At the airport, when you get to the departure gate, don't say you think your husband is aboard. Say you know he's aboard and you'd like to speak to him. If he isn't, you'll find out. If he is, it will make it easier for the gate agent to tell you what you want to know.»
«Thank you," Inez said. "Thank you very much.»
«You're entirely welcome, madam." Miss Young was her mach~ne-like self once more. "Good night, and thank you for calling Trans America." Replacing the telephone, Inez remembered something she had noticed coming in. A taxi was parked outside; now she saw the driver. In a yellow, peaked cap, he was at the drugstore soda fountain, in conversation with another man. A taxi would be costly, but if she was to get to the airport by 1 t P.m., it was probably the only means. Inez crossed to the soda fountain and touched the driver on the arm. "Excuse me." The cab driver turned. "Yeah, waddya want?" He had a mean, flabby face, and needed a shave. "I was wondering how much it would cost for a taxi to the airport." The driver inspected her through narrowed, calculating eyes. "From here, maybe nine, ten dollars on the meter." Inez turned away. It was too much-more than half the small amount of money she had remaining; and she was not even sure that D.O. would be on the flight. "Hey, you! Hold it!" The cabbie downed a Coke he had been drinking and hurried after Inez. He caught her at the door. "How much dough ya got?" "It isn't that." Inez shook her head. "It's just … it's more than I can afford." The cabbie snorted, "Suma you people think ya can get them kinda rides for peanuts. 'S long drag out there.»
«Yes, I know.»
«Why yo u wanna go? Whyn't yer get th' bus?" "It's important; I have to be there . . . ought to be there … by eleven o'clock.»
«Here," the cab driver said, "maybe it's bargain night. I'll take yer for seven, even.»
«Well . ~ ." Inez still hesitated. Seven dollars was most of what she had planned to offer the apartment landlord tomorrow in an attempt to appease him about the arrears of rent. She would have no wages from the coffee house until the end of next week. The cab driver said impatiently, " 'S th' best offer you'll get. You wanna take it, or not?" "Yes," Inez said. "Yes, I'll take it.»
«Okay, Jcssgo." While Inez climbed into the cab unaided, the driver

smirked a~, he used a whisk broom to clear snow from the windsliield and windows. When Inez approached him in the drugstore, he was already off duty and, since he lived near the airport, was about to dead-head home. Now, he had a fare. Also, he lied in declaring the meter fare to th,.~ airport to be nine or ten dollars; it was actually less than seven. But the lie made it possible to concoct what his passenger believed to be a deal, so now he could drive with his flag up, and pocket the seven dollars foi himself. High-flagging was illegal, but no cop, the diiver reasoned, would be likely to spot him on a lousy ni,)ht like this. Thus, the cab driver thought smugly, in a single move he had managed to cheat both this stupid old crone of a passenger and his son-of-a-bitch employer. As they moved off, Inez asked anxiously, "Are you sure you can get there by eleven o'clock?" Over his shoulder the driver snarled, "I said so, didn't 1, so lemme do the drivin'." Just the same, he conceded to himself, he was not certain that they would. The roads were bad, the other traffic slow. They might just make it, but it was going to be close.
Th , irty-five minutes later, the taxi containing Inez was crawling tediously along the snowbound, still-plugged Kennedy Expressway. Sitting tensely on the back seat, her fingers working nervously, Inez was wondering how much longer the journey would last. At the same moment, the airport bus containing the contingenr. of Flight Two passengers swung on to the departure ramp entrance at Lincoln International. The bus, after shaking itself free from the slow-moving traffic newer town, had continued to make good time; now, the c~ock above the terminal showed a quarter to eleven. As the bus stopped, D. 0. Guerrero was tirst to alight. 9
"Bring along that portable public address system," Elliott Freem,~jitle commanded. "We may be glad of it." The Meadowood community meeting in the Sunday school hall of Meadowood First Baptist Church was sizzling with excitement which Lawyer Freemantle had skillfully generated. The meeting was also about to move on to Lincoln International Airport. "Don't hand me any bilgewater about it being too late, or not wanting to go," Elliott Freemantle had exhorted his audience of six hundred a few minutes earlier. He stood before them confidently, impeccable as ever in his ,-Iegant Blue Spruce suit and gleaming alligator shoes; not a single barber-styled hair was out of place, and be radiated confidence. The meeting was enthusiastically with him now, and the rougher tongued he was, it seemed, the more they liked him. He continued, "And don't let's have a lot of footling excuses for not going. I don't want to hear about babysitters, mothers-in-law left alone, or stews on the stove simmering, because I couldn't care less; neither-at this moment-should you. If your car's stuck in the snow, leave it there and ride in someone else's. The point is: I'm going to the airport tonight, on your behalf, to make myself obnoxious." Ile paused as another aircraft thundered overhead. "By God!-it's time somebody did." The last remark had caused applause and laughter. "I need your support, and I want you there-all of you. Now I'll ask you a plain, straight question: Are you coming?" The halt resounded to a roar of, "Yes!" People were on their feet, cheering. "All right," Freemantle said, and the hall had hushed. "Let's get a few things clear before we go." He had ilready told them, he pointed out, that legal proceedings must be the basis of any action to gain relief for Meadowood community from its over– whelmine airport noise. Such legal proceedings, however, sh~)uld not be the kind which nobody noticed, or which took place in some out-of-the-way, unpeopled courtroom. Instead, they must be conducted in the spotlight of public attention and public sympathy. "How do we get that kind of attention and sympathy?" Lawyer Freemantle paused, then answered his own question. "We get it by making our point of view known in such a way that it becomes newsworthy. Then, and only then, can the attention-getting media-press, radio, and television-feature our viewpoint prominently, in the kind of way we want." The press were good friends, he declared. "We do not ask them to share our point of view, merely to report it fairly, which-in my experience-they always do. But it helps out reporter friends if a cause can engender some drama; that way, they get a better story." The three reporters at the press table were grinning as Freemantle added, "We'll see if we can stage some drama for them tonight." While E lliott Freemantle was speaking, he was also observing shrewdly the progress of the legal forms, re taining himself as legal counsel for individual home owners, which were now circulating through the hall. Many of the forms-at least a hundred, he estimated had been signed and passed forward. He had watched ballpoint pens appear, husbands and wives bend over the documents to sign jointly, thus committing each family to payment of a hundred dollars. Lawyer Free mantle did some happy calculation: a hundred com pleted retainers meant ten thousand dollars for himself. Not a bad fee for-so far-an evening's work, and in the end the total fee would be a great deal more. While the forms were still circulating, he decided, he would continue talking for a few minutes longer. As to what was going to happen at the airport tonight, he instructed his listeners, they were to leave that to him. He hoped there would be a confrontation with the airport's management; in any case, he intended to stage a demonstration-within the airport terminalwhich people would remember. "All I ask is that you stay together and that you raise your voices only when I tell you." Emphatically, he cautioned, there would be no disorder. No one must be able to say next day that the Meadowood anti-noise delegation violated any law. "Of course"-Freemantle smiled suggestively-"we may get in the way and cause some inconvenience; I understand that the airport is extremely busy tonight. But we can't help that." There was laughter again. He sensed that people were ready to go. Still another aircraft reverberated overhead, and he waited until the sound had died. "Very we'll Let us be on our way!" Lawyer Freemantle raised his hands like a jet-age Moses, and mixquoted: "For I have promises to keep, with much ado before I sleep." The laughter changed to renewed cheering, and people began moving toward the doors. It was then that he had noticed the portable p.a. system, borrowed from the Meadowood First Baptist Church, and instructed that it be brought along. Floyd Zanetta, the meeting's chairman-virtually ignored since Elliott Freemantle eclipsed him in attention-hurried to comply. Freemantle himself was stuffing signed retainer forms into his briefcase. A quick count showed that he had underestimated earlier-there were over a hundred and sixty forms, or more than sixteen thousand dollars' worth of collectible fees. In addition, many who had come forward to shake his hand within the past few minutes, assured him they would mail their own forms, along with checks, in the morning. Lawyer Freemantle glowed. He had no real plan as to what would happen at the airport, any more than he had arrived tonight with a fixed idea about how to take over this meeting. Elliott Freemantle disliked fixed ideas. He preferred to impro– vise, to get situations rolling, then direct them this way or that, to his own advantage. His freewheeling methods had worked once already this evening; he saw no reason why they should not do so again.

The ma~i thing was to keep these Meadowood homeowners convinced that they had a dynamic leader who would eventually produce results. Furthermore, they must remain convinced until the four quarterly payments, which the legal retainer agreements called for, were made. After that, when Elliott Freemantle had his money in the bank, the opinions wore less important. So he had to keep this situation lively, he reasoned, for ten or eleven months-and he would do it. He would give these people all the dynamism they could want. There would be need for some more meetings and demonstrations like tonight's because those made news. Too often, court proceedings didn't. Despite what he had said a few minutes ago about legal proceedings being a base, any sessions in court were likely to be unspectacular and possibly unprofitable. Of course, he would do his best to introduce some histrionics, though quite a few judges nowadays were wise to Lawyer Freemantle's attention-creating tactics, and curtailed them sternly. But there were no real problems, providing he remembered-as he always did in these affairs-that the most important factor was the care and feeding of Elliott Freemantle. He could see one of the reporters, Tomlinson of the Tribune, using a pay phone just outside the hall; another reporter was nearby. Good! It meant that downtown city desks were being alerted, and would cover whatever happened at the airport. There would also, if earlier arrangements Freemantle had made worked out, be some TV coverage, too. The crowd was thinning. Time to go! 10
Near the airport's floodlighted main entrance, the flashing red beacon of the state police patrol car died. The patrol car, which had preceded Joe Patroni from the site of the wrecked tractor– trailer, slowed, and the state trooper at the wheel pulled over to the curb, waving the TWA maintenance chief past. Patroni accelerated. As his Buick Wildcat swept by, Patroni waved his cigar in salutation and honked his hom twice. Although the last stage of Joe Patroni's journey had been accomplished with speed, over-all it had taken more than three hours to cover a distance-from his home to the airport-which normally took forty minutes. Now, he hoped, he could make good some of the lost time. Fighting the snow and slippery road surface, he cut swiftly through the stream of terminal-bound traffic and swung onto a side road to the airport's hangar area. At a sign, "TWA Maintenance," he wheeled the Buick sharply right. A few hundred yards farther on, the airline's maintenance hangar loomed towering and massive. The main doors were open; he drove directly in. Inside the hangar a radio-equipped pickup truck, with driver, was waiting; it would take Patroni onto the airfield-to the miied A6reo-Mexican jet, still obstructing runway three zero. Stepping from his car, the maintenance chief paused only long enough to relight his cigar –ignoring "no smoking" regulations-then hoisted his stocky figure into the truck cab. He instructed the driver, "Okay, son, push that needle round the dial." The truck raced away, Patroni obtaining radio clearance from the tower as they went. Once away from the lighted hangar area, the driver stayed close to taxi lights, the only guide-in the white-tinted gloom-to where paved surfaces began and ended. On instructions from the tower they halted briefly near a runway while a DC-9 of Delta Air Lines landed in a flurry of snow and rolled by with a thunder of reversed jet thrust. The ground controller cleared them across the runway, then added, "Is that Joe Patroni?" "Yep.11 There was an interval while the controller dealt with other traffic, then: "Ground control to Patroni. We have a message from the airport manager's office. Do you read?"

"This's Patroni. Go ahead.»
«Message begins: Joe, I'll bet you a box of cigars against a pair of ball tickets that you can't get that stuck airplane clear of three zero tonight, and I'd like you to win. Signed, Mel Bakersfeld. End of message." Joe Patroni chuckled as he depressed the transmit button. "Patroni to ground control. Tell him he's on." Replacing the radio mike, he urged the truck driver, "Keep her moving, son. Now I got me an incentive." At the blocked intersection of runway three zero, the A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman, Ingram-whom Mel Bakersfeld had talked with earlier-approached the pickup as it stopped. The foreman was still huddled into a parka, shielding his face as best he could from the biting wind and snow. Joe Patroni bit off the end of a fresh cigar, though this time without lighting it, and descended from the truck cab. On the way out from the hangar he had changed from the overshoes he had been wearing into heavy fleece-lined boots; high as the boots were, the deep snow came over them. Patroni pulled his own parka around him and nodded to Ingram. The two men knew each other slightly. "Okay," Patroni said; he had to shout to make himself heard above the wind. "Gimme the poop." As Ingram made his report, the wings and fuselage of the stalled Boeing 707 loomed above them both, like an immense ghostly albatross. Beneath the big jet's belly a red hazard light still winked rhythmically, and the collection of trucks and service vehicles, including a crew bus and roaring power cart, remained clustered on the taxiway side of the aircraft. The A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman summarized what had been done already: the removal of passengers, and the first abortive attempt to get the airplane moving under its own power. Afterward, he informed Joe Patroni, as much weight had been taken off as possible-freight, mail, baggage, with most of the fuel load being sucked out by tankers. Then there had been a second attempt to blast the airplane out, again with its own jets, which also ended in failure. Chewing his cigar instead of smoking it-one of Pa– troni's rare concessions to fire precaution, since the smell of ilviation kerosene was strong-the TWA maintenance chief moved closer to the aircraft. Ingram followed, and the two were joined by several ground crewmen who emerged from the shelter of the crew bus. As Patroni surveyed the scene, one of the crewmen switched on portable floodlights which were rigged in a semicircle in front of the airplane's nose. The lights revealed that the main landing gear was partially out of sight, embedded in a covering of black mud beneath snow. The aircraft had stuck in an area which was normally grass-covered, a few yards off runway three zero, near an intersecting taxiway-the taxiway which the A6.reo-Mexican pilot had missed in the dark and swirling sil,-,)w. It was sheer bad luck, Patroni realized, that at that point the ground must have been so waterlogged that. not even three days of snow and freezing temperatures had been sufficient to harden it. As a result, the 1wo attempts to blast the airplane free with its own power– had merely succeeded in settling it deeper. Now, nacelles of the four jet engines beneath the wings were uncomfortably close to ground level. Ignoring the snow, which swirled about him Eke a scene from South with Scott, Patroni considered, calculating the possibilities of success. There was still a worthwhile chance, he decided, of getting the airplane out by use of its own engine power. It would be the fastest way, if it could be done. If not, they would have to employ giant lifting bags-eleven altogether, made of nylon fabric-placed under wings and fusela,ge, and inflated by pneumatic blowers. When the bags were in place, heavy-duty jacks would be used to raise the aircraft's wheels, then a solid floor built under them. But the process would be long, difficult, and wearying. Joe Patroni hoped it could be avoided. He announced, "We gotta dig deep and wide in front of the gear. I want two six-foot-wide trenches down to where the wheels are now. Coming forward from the wheels, we'll level the trenches at first, then slope 'ern up gradually." He swung to Ingram. "That's a lot of digging.11 The foreman nodded. "Sure is."

"When we've finished that part, we'll start the engines and pull full power with all four." Patroni motioned to the stalled, silent aircraft. "That should get her moving forward. When she's rolling. and up the slope of the trenches, we'll swing her this way." Stomping with the heavy boots he bad put on in the truck, he traced an elliptical path through the snow between the soft ground and the taxiway paved surface. "Another thing-let's lay big timbers, as many as we can, in front of the wheels. You got any at all?" "Some," Ingram said. "In one of the trucks.»
«Unload 'em, and send your driver around the air-port to round up as many as he can. Try all the airlines, and airport maintenance." The ground crewmen nearest Patroni and Ingram hailed others, who began scrambling from the crew bus. Two of the men rolled back a snow-covered tarpaulin on a truck containing tools and shovels. The shovels were passed around among figures, moving and shadowy outside the semicircle of bright lights. The blowing snow, at times, made it difficult for the men to see each other. They waited for orders to begin. A boarding ramp, leading to the forward cabin door of the 707, had been left in place. Patroni pointed to it. "Are the flyboys still aboard?" Ingram grunted. "They're aboard. The goddarn captain and first officer." Patroni looked at him sharply. "They been giving you trouble?" "It wasn't what they gave me," Ingram said sourly, "it's what they wouldn't. When I got here, I wanted 'em to pull full power, the way you just said. If they'd done it the first time. I reckon she'd have come out; but they didn't have the guts, which is why we got in deeper. The captain's made one big screwup tonight, and knows it. Now he's scared stiff of standing the ship on its nose." Joe Patroni grinned. "If I were him, I might feel the same way." He had chewed his cigar to shreds; he threw it into the snow and reached inside his parka for another. "Ill talk to the captain later. Is the interpbone rigged?" "Yeah.,, "Call the flight deck, then. Tell 'em we're working, and I'll be up there soon.»
«Right." As he moved closer to the aircraft, Ingram called to the twenty or so assembled ground crewmen, "Okay, you guys; let's get digging!" Joe Paironi seized a shovel himself and, within minutes, the group was shifting mud, earth, and snow. When he had used the fuselage interphone to speak to the pilots iri their cockpit high above, Ingram-with the aid of a riechanic-began groping through icy mud, with cold numbed hands, to lay the first of the timbers in front of the aircraft's wheels. Across the airfield occasionally, as the snow gusted and limits of visibility changed, the lights of aircraft taking off and landing could be seen, and the whinepitched roar of jet engines was carried on the wind to the ears of the men working. But close alongside, runway thn.-e zero remained silent and deserted. Joe Patroni calculated: It would probably be an hour before the digging would be complete and the Boeing 707's engines could be started in an attempt to taxi the big airliner out. Meanwhile, the men now excavating the twin trenches, which were beginning to take shape, would have to be relieved in shifts, to warm themselves in the crew bus, still parked on the taxiway. It was ten-thirty now. With luck, he thought, he might be home in bed-with Marie-soon after mid– L, night. To bring the prospect nearer, also to keep warm, Patroni thrcw himself even harder into shoveling. 11

In the Clot d Captain's Coffee Shop, Captain Vernon
Demerest oi-dered tea for Gwen, black coffee for him
self. Coffee-as it was supposed to do-helped keep him alert; lie would probably down a dozen more cups between here and Rome. Although Captain Harris would be doing most of the flying of Flight Two tonight, Demerest had no intention of relaxing mentally. In the air, he rarely did. He was aware, as were most veteran pilots, that aviators who died in their beds of old age were those who throughout their careers had been ready to cope insrantly with the unexpected. "We're both unusually quiet," Gwen said in her gentle English voice. "We scarcely said a word coming into the terminal." It was just a few minutes since they left the departure concourse, after announcement of the one hour flight delay. They had managed to snare a booth near the rear of the coffee shop, and now Gwen was looking into the mirror of her compact, patting her hair into place where it flowed superbly from beneath the smart Trans America stewardess cap. Her dark, expressive eyes switched briefly from the mirror to Vernon Demerest's f ace. "I wasn't talking," Demerest said, "because I've been thinking; that's all." Gwen moistened her lips, though not applying lipstick –airlines had strict rules against stewardesses applying make-up in public. In any case, Gwen used very little; her complexion was the milk and roses kind which so many English girls seemed born with. "Thinking about what? Your traumatic experiencethe announcement we're to be parents?" Gwen smiled mischievously, then recited, "Captain Vernon Waldo Demerest and Miss Gwendolyn Aline Meighen announce the approaching arrival of their first child, a … what? . . . 'We don't know, do we? We won't for another seven months. Oh well, it isn't long to wait." He remained silent while their coffee and tea was set before them, then protested, "For God's sake, Gwen, let's be serious about this.»
«Why should we be? Especially if I'm not. After all, if anyone'3 worrying, it ought to be me." He was tbout to object again when Gwen reached for his hand under the table. Her expression changed to sympathy. "I'm sorry. I suppose it really is a bit shattering-for both of us.'" It was the opening Demerest had been waiting for. He said carefully, "It needn't be shattering. What's more, we don't have to be parents unless we choose to be. 11
"Well," Gwen said matter-of-factly, "I was wondering when you'd get around to it." She snapped her compact closed. and put it away. "You almost did in the car, didn't vou? Fben thought better of it.»
«Tho~tgnt better of what?" "Oh really, Vernon! Why pretend? We both know perfectly w(,,Il what it is you're talking about. You want me to have an abortion. You've been thinking about it ever since I told you I was pregnant. Well, haven't you?" He nodded reluctantly. "Yes." He still found Gwen's directness disconcerting. "What's the matter? Did you think I'd never heard about abortions before?" Demerest. glanced over his shoulder, wondering if they could be overheard, but the clatter of the coffee shop, the buzz of conversation generally, were all-pervading. "I wasn't sure how you'd feel.»
«I'm not sure either." It was Gwen's turn to be serious. She was looking down at her hands, the long slender fingers he admired so much now clasped in front of her. "I've thought about it. I still don't know." He felt encouraged. At least there was no slammed door, no blank refusal. He tried to make himself the voice of reason. "It's really the only sensible thing to do. Maybe in some ways it's unpleasant to think of, but at least it's over quickly, and if it's done properly, therapeutically, there's no danger involved, no fear of complications.»
«I know," Gwen said. "It's all terribly simple. Now you have it; now you don't." She looked at him directly. "Right?" "Right."