He sipped his coffee. Perhaps this was going to be easier than he had thought. "Vernon," Gwen said softly, "have you considered that what's inside me is a human being; that it's alive, a person-even now? We made love. It's us, you and me; a part of us." Her eyes, more troubled than he had yet seen them, searched his face for a response. He said emphatically, his voice deliberately harsh, "That isn't true. A fetus at this stage is not a human being; nor is it a person, not yet. It could be later, but it isn't now. It doesn't have life or breath or feeling. An abortion-particularly this soon-isn't the same as taking a human life." Gwen reacted with the same quick temper she had shown in the car on their way to the airport. "You mean it might not be such a good thing later on? If we waited, then had an abortion, it might not be so ethical when the baby wits perfectly formed, its fingers and toes all there. To kill it then might be a little worse than now. Is that it, Vernon?" Dernerest shook his head. "I didn't say that.»«But you implied it.»«If I did, I didn't mean to. In any case, you're twisting words around." Gwen sighed. "I'm being womanly.»«No one's more entitled to be." He smiled; his eyes moved over her. The thought of Naples, with Gwen … a few hours from now … still excited him. "I do love you, Vernon. I really do." Under the table he retrieved her hand. "I know. It's why this is hard for us both.»«The thing is," Gwen said slowly, as if thinking aloud, "I've never conceived a child before, and until it happens a woman always wonders if she can. When you find out, as I have, that the answer's yes, in a way it's a gift, a feeling … that only a woman knows … that's great and wonderful. Then suddenly in our kind of situation, you're faced with ending it all, of squandering what was given." Her eyes were misty. "Do you under– stand, Vernon? Really understand?" He answered gently, "Yes, I think so.»«The difference between you and me is that you've had a child." He shook his head. "I've no children. Sarah and I … 1~ "Not in your marriage. But there was a child; you told me so. A little girl; the one from the 3-PPP Program"-Gwen gave the ghost of a smile-"who was adopted. Now, whatever happens there's always someone, somewhere, that's you again." He remained silent. Gwen asked, "Do you ever think about her? Don't you ever wonder where she is, what she's like?" There was no reason to lie. "Yes," he said. "Sometimes I do.»«You've no means of finding out?" He shook his head. He had once inquired, but was told that when an adoption was sealed, they threw away the files. There was no way to know-ever. Gwen drank from her teacup. Over its rim she surveyed the crowded coffee shop. He sensed that her composure had returned; the trace of tears was gone. She said with a smile, "Oh dear, what a lot of trouble I'm causing you." He answered, and meant it: "It isn't my worrying that matters. It's what's best for you.»«Well, I suppose in the end IT do what's sensible. I'll have an abortion. I just have to think it through, talk it out, first.»«When you're ready, I'll help. But we shouldn't lose much time.»«I suppose not.»«Look, Gwen," he assured her, "the whole thing is fast, and I promise you it'll be medically safe." He told her about Sweden; that he would pay whatever the clinic cost; that the airline would cooperate in getting her there. She acknowledged, "I'll make up my mind, for sure, before we get back from this trip." He picked up their check, and they rose to leave. It was nearing time for Gwen to be on hand to greet passengers boarding Flight Two.
As they left the coffee shop, she said, "I guess I'm pretty lucky you're the way you are. Some men would have walked away and left me.»«I won't leave you." But he would leave her; be knew that now. When Naples and the abortion were over, he would finish with Gwen, break off their affair-as considerately as he could, but completely and definitely just the same. It would not be too difficult. There might be an uncomfortable moment or two when Gwen learned of his intention, but she was not the kind to make a fuss; she had demonstrated that already. In any event, he could handle the situation, which would not be a new one. Vernon Dernerest had disentangled himself successfully from amorous affairs before. It was true that this time there was a difference. No one before had ever had quite the same effect on him as Gwen. No other woman had stirred him quite so deeply. No one else-at least, whom he remembered-had caused him to enjoy her company, just being with her, quite so much. Parting, for himself, would not be easy, and he knew he would be tempted, later on, to change his mind. But he would not. Through all his life so far, once he had decided on a course of action, Vernon Dernerest had seen it through. Seff-discipline was a habit he enforced. Besides, commonsense told him that if he did not break with Gwen soon, the time might come when he could not, when-self-discipline or not-he could never bring himself to give her up. If that happened, it would entail a need for permanence and, along with that, the kind of catastrophic upheaval-marital, financial, emotional-which he was determined to avoid. Ten or fifteen years ago, maybe; not now. He touched Gwen's arm. "You go on. IT follow in a minute." Ahead of them, as the crowds in the central concourse parted briefly, he had observed Mel Bakersfeld. Vernon Dernerest had no particular objection to being seen with Gwen; just the same, there was no sense in advertising their relationship around the family. His brother-in-law, he noticed, was talking earnestly with Lieutenant Ned Ordway, the efficient, amiable Negro who commanded the airport police detachment. Perhaps Mol would be too absorbed to notice his sister's husband, which was perfectly all right with Demerest, who had Do particular wish for a meeting, though at the same time fie had no intention of avoiding one. Gwen disappeared into the crowd; his last glimpse of her was of shapely, nylon-sheathed legs, and ankles equally as attractive and proportionate. 0 Sole Mio … hurry up! Damn! Mel Bakersfeld had seen him."I was looking for you," Lieutenant Ordway had told Mel a few minutes earlier. "I've just heard we're having visitors-several hundred." Tonight the airport police chief was in uniform; a taU, striking figure who looked like an African emperor, though for one so big, he spoke with surprising softness. "We already have visitors." Mel glanced around the crowded, bustling concourse. He had been passing through on the way to his office on the executive mezzanine. "Not hundreds; thousands.»«I don't mean passengers," Ordway said. "The ones I'm talking about may cause us more trouble." He told Mel about the Meadowood mass meeting to protest airport noise; now the meeting had adjourned and most of its members were on their way to the airport. Lieutenant Ordway had learned about the meeting, and its intended follow-up, from a TV news crew which had requested permission to set up cameras inside the terminal. After talking with the TV people, Ordway telephoned a friend on the Tribune city desk downtown, who read him the gist of a news story which a reporter at the original meeting had just phoned in. "Hell!" Mel grumbled. "Of all the nights to choosel As if we don't have enough trouble already.»«I guess that's the idea; they'll get noticed more that way. But I thought you'd better be warned because
they'll probably want to see you, and maybe someone from the F AA." Mel said sourly, "The FAA goes underground when they bear of something like t1fis. They never come out until the all clear's sounded.»«How about you?" The policeman grinned. "You plan to start tunneling?" "No. You can tell them I'll meet a delegation of half a dozen, though even that's a waste of time tonight. There's nothing I can do.»«You realize," Ordway said, "that providing they don't create a disturbance or damage property, there's nothing I can do legally to keep the rest of them out.»«Yes, I realize it, but I'm not going to talk to a mob, though just the same, let's not look for trouble. Even if we get pushed around a little, make sure we don't do any pushing ourselves unless we have to. Remember that the press will be here, and I don't want to create any martyrs.»«I already warned my men. They'll make with the jokes and save the jujitsu.»«Good!" Mel had confidence in Ned Ordway. The policing of Lincoln International was handled by a self-administering detachment of the city force, and Lieutenant Ordway represented the best type of career policeman. He had been in cbarge of the airport police detail a year, and would probably move on to a more important assignment downtown soon. Mel would be sorry to see him go. "Apart from this Meadowood thing," Mel inquired, "bow's everything else been?" He was aware that Ordway's force of a hundred policemen, like most others at the airport, had done extra hours of duty since the storm began. "Mostly routine. More drunks than usual, and a couple of fist fights. But that figures because of all the flight delays and your busy bars." Mel grinned. "Don't knock the bars. The airport takes a percentage from every drink, and we need the revenue.»«So do airlines, I guess. At least judging by the passengers th(,y try to sober up, so they can put them aboard. I have my usual beef about that.»«Coffee?" "Right. The moment a passenger in his cups shows up at an airline check-in counter, somebody from passenger relations gets assigned to pour coffee into him. Airlines never seem to learn that when the coffee's in, all you have is a wide-awake drunk. Mostly, that's when they call us.»«You can handle it." Ordway's men, Mel was aware, were expert at dealing with airport drunks, who were rarely charged unless they became obstreperous. Mostly they were salesmen and businessmen from out of town, sometimes exhausted after a grueling, competitive week, whom a few drinks on the way home hit hard. If flight crews wouldn't allow them aboard-and captains, who had the last word on such matters, were usually adamant about it-the drunks were escorted to the police detention building and left to sober up. Later, they were allowed to go-usually sheepishly. "Oh, there is one thing," the police chief said. "The parking lot people think we have several more dumped cars. In this weather it's hard to be sure, but we'll check it out as soon as we can." Mel grimaced. Worthless cars abandoned on parking lots were currently a plague at every big city airport. Nowadays, when an old jalopy became useless, it was surprisingly hard to get rid of it. Scrap and salvage dealers were jammed to the limits of their yards and wanted no more-unless car owners paid. So an owner was faced with the alternatives of paying for disposal, renting storage, or finding a place to abandon his vehicle where it could not be traced back to him. Airports had become obvious dumping grounds. The old cars were driven into airport parking lots, then licerse plates and other obvious identification quietly removed. Engine serial numbers could not be removed, of course, but the time and trouble involved in tracing t1wra was never worth while. It was simpler for
the airport to do what the ex-owner would not-pay for the car to he taken away and junked, and as quickly as possible sitice it was occupying revenue parking space. Recently, at Lincoln International, the monthly bill for old car disposal had become formidable. Through the shifting throng in the concourse, Mel caught sight of Captain Vernon Demerest. "Aside from that," Ordway said genially, "we're in great shape for your Meadowood visitors. I'll let you know when they get here." With a friendly nod, the policeman moved on. Vernon Demerest-in Trans America uniform, his bearing confident as usual-was coming Mel's way. Mel felt a surge of irritation, remembering the adverse snow committee report which he had heard about, but still hadn't seen. Demerest seemed disinclined to stop until Mel said, "Good eveiiing, Vernon.»«Hi." The tone was indifferent. "I hear that you're an authority, now, on snow clearance.»«You don't have to be an authority," Vernon Demerest said brusquely, "to know when there's a lousy job being done." Mel made an effort to keep his tone moderate. "Have you any idea how much snow there's been?" "Probably better than you. Part of my job is studying weather reports.»«Then you're aware we've had ten inches of snow on the airport in the past twenty-four hours; to say nothing of what was there already." Dernerest shrugged. "So clear it.»«It's what we're doing.»«Goddamned inefficiently.»«The maximum recorded snowfall here-ever," Mel persisted, "was twelve inches in the same period. That was an intmelation, and everything closed down. This time we've come near to it, but we haven't closed. We've fou-1ht to stay open, and we've managed it. There isn't an airport anywhere that could have coped better than we have with this storm. We've had every piece of snow-moving machinery manned around the clock.»«Maybe you haven't got enough machinery.»«Good God, Vernon! Nobody has enough equipment for the kind of storm we've had these past three days. Anybody could use more, but you don't buy snowclearing machinery for occasional maximum situations –not if you've any economic sense. You buy for optimums, then when an emergency hits, you use everything you have, deploying it to best advantage. That's what my men have been doing, and they've done damned well! " "Okay," Demerest said, "you have your opinion, I have mine. I happen to think you've done an incompetent job. I've said so in my report.»«I thought it was a committee report. Or did you elbow the others out so you could take a personal stab at me?" "How the committee works is our business. The report is what matters. You'll get your copy tomorrow.»«Thanks a lot." His brother-in-law, Mel noticed, had not bothered to deny that the report was directed personally. Mel went on, "Whatever it is you've written won't change anything, but if it gives you satisfaction, it'll have a nuisance value. Tomorrow I'll have to waste time explaining how ignorant-in some areas-you really are." Mel had spoken heatedly, not bothering to conceal his anger, and for the first time Demerest grinned. "Got under your skin a little, eh? Well, that's too bad about the nuisance value and your precious time. I'll re– member it tomorrow while I'm enjoying Italian sunshine." Still grinning, he walked away. He had not gone more than a few yards when the grin changed to a scowl. The cause of Captain Demerest's displeasure was the central lobby insurance booth-tonight, clearly doing a brisk business. It was a reminder that Demerest's victory overr Mel Bakersfeld had been picayune, a pinprick only. A week from now, the adverse snow committee report would be forgotten, but the insurance
counter would still be here. So the real victory was still with his smooth, smug brother-in-law, who had defeated Demerest's arguments in front of the Board of Airport Commissioners, and made him look a fool. Behind the insurance counters two young girls-one of them the big-breasted blonde-were rapidly writing policies for applicants, while another half dozen people waited in line. Most of those waiting were holding cash in their hands-representing more quick profits for the insurance companies, Demerest reflected sourly-and he had no doubt the automatic vending machines in various locations in the terminal were just as busy. He wondered if any of his own Flight Two passengers-to-be were among those in line. He was tempted to inquire and, if so, do some proselytizing of his own; but he decided not. Vernon Demerest had tried the same thing once before-urging people at an insurance counter not to buy airport flight insurance, and telling them why; and afterward there bad been complaints, resulting in a sharply worded reprimand to him from Trans America management. Though airlines did not like airport insurance vending any more than aircrews did, the airlines were subject to differing pressures which forced them to stay neutral. For one thing, airport managements claimed they needed the insurance companies' revenue; if they didn't get it from that source, they pointed out, maybe the airlines would have to make up the difference in higher landing fees. For another, airlines were not eager to offend passengers, who might resent not being able to buy insurance in a way they had become used to. Therefore the pilots alone had taken the initiative-along with the abuse. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Captain Demerest had paused for a few seconds, watching the insurance booth activity. Now he saw a newcomer join the queue-a nervous-looking man-spindly and stoop-shouldered, and with a small, sandy mustache. The man carried a small attac46 case and seemed to be worrying about the time; he cast frequent glances at the central lobby clock, comparing it with his own watch. He was clearly unhappy about the length of the line-up ahead of him. Demerest thought disgustedly: the man had left himself with too little time; he should forget about insurance and get aboard his flight. Then Demerest reminded himself: he should be back on the flight deck of Flight Two. He began to walk quickly toward the Trans America departure concourse; at any moment now the first boarding announcement would be made. Ah!-there it was. "Trans America Airlines announces the departure of Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, for Rome…" Captain Dernerest had stayed in the terminal longer than he intended. As he hurried, the announcement, clear and audible above the babel in the concourses, continued. 12 Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, for Rome. The flight is now ready for boarding. All passengers holding confirmed reservations . . ." An airport flight departure announcement meant diverse things to those who heard it. To some, it was a routine summons, a prefix to another tedious, workoriented journey which-had free choice been theirsthey would not have made. For others, a flight announcement spelled a beginning of adventure; for others still, the nearing of an end-the journey home. For some it entailed sadness and parting; for others, in counterpoint, the prospect of reunion and joy. Some who heard flight announcements heard them always for other people. Their friends or relatives were travelers; as to themselves, the names of destinations were wistful not-quite-glimpses of faraway places they would never see. A handful heard flight announcements with fear; few heard them with indifference. They were a signal
that a process of departure had begun. An airplane was ready; there was time to board, but no time to be tardy; only rarely did airliners wait for individuals. In a short time the airplane would enter man's unnatural element, the skies; and because it was unnatural there had always been, and would forever remain, a component of adventure and romance. There was nothing romantic about the mechanics of a flight announcement. It originated in a machine which in many ways resembled a juke box, except that push buttons instead of coins were required to actuate it. The push buttons were on a console in Flight Information Control-a miniature control tower (each airline had its own F.I.C. or equivalent) –located above the departure concourse. A woman clerk pushed the buttons in appropriate sequence; after that the machinery took over. Almost all flight announcements-the exceptions were those for special situations-were pre-recorded on cartridge tapes. Although, to the ear, each announcement seemed complete in itself, it never was, for it consisted of three separate recordings. The first recording named the airline and flight; the second described the loading situation, whether preliminary, boarding, or final; the third recording specified gate number and con– course. Since the three recordings followed one another without a pause, they sounded-as they were intended to-continuous. People who disliked quasi-human automation were sometimes cheered when flight announcement machines went wrong. OccasionaHy part of the machinery would jam, with such results as passengers for half a dozen flights being misdirected to the same gate. The resultant debacle, involving a thousand or more confused, impatient passengers, was an airline agent's nightmare. Tonight, for FlightTwo, the machinery worked. ". . . passengers holding confirmed reservations please proceed to pate forty-seven, the Blue Concourse 'D'."By now, thousands in the terminal had heard the announcement of Flight Two. Some who heard were more cone.-med than others. A few, not yet concerned, would be, before the night was done. More than a hundred and fifty Flight Two passengers heard the announcement. Those who had checked in, but had not reached gate forty-seven, hastened toward it, a few recent arrivals still knocking snow from their clothing as they went.Senior Stewardess Gwen Meighen was pre-boarding several families with small children when the announcement echoed down the boarding walkway. She used the flight deck interphone to notify Captain Anson Harris, and prepared herself for an influx of passengers within the next few minutes. Ahead of the passengers, Captain Vernon Demerest ducked aboard and hurried forward, closing the flight deck door behind him. Anson Harris, working with Second Officer Cy Jordan, had already begun the pre-flight check. "Okay," Dernerest said. He slipped into the first officer's righthand seat, and took the check list clipboard. Jordan returned to his regular seat behind the other two.Mel Bakersfeld, still in the central concourse, beard the announcement and remembered that The Golden Argosy was Vernon Demerest's flight. Mel genuinely regretted that once again an opportunity to end, or even lessen, the hostility between himself and his brotber-inlaw had ended in failure. Now, their personal relationship was-if possible-worse than before. Mel wondered how much of the blame was his own; some, certainly, because Vernon seemed to have a knack for probing out the worst in Mel, but Mel honestly believed that most of their quarrel was of Vernon's making. Part of the trouble was that Vernon saw himself as a superior being, and resented it when others didn't. A good many pilots whom Mel knew-especially captains-felt that way about themselves, Mel stitl seethed when he remembered Vernon, after the airport commissioners' meeting, asserting that people like Mel were "ground-bound, desk-tied, with
penguins' minds." As if flying an airplane, Mel thought, were something so damned extra-special compared with other occupations! Just the same, Mel wished that tonight for a few hours he was a pilot once again, and was about to leave –as Vernon was leaving-on a flight for Rome. He remembered what Vernon had said about enjoying Italian sunshine tomorrow. Mel could do with a little of that, a little less, at this moment, of aviation's logistics of the ground. Tonight the surly bonds of earth seemed surlier than usual.Police Lieutenant Ned Ordway, who had left Mel Bakersfeld a few minutes earlier, heard the announcement of Flight Two through the opened doorway of a small security office just off the main concourse. Ordway was in the office receiving a telephoned report from his desk sergeant at airport police headquarters. According to a radio message from a patrol car, a heavy influx of private automobiles, crammed with people, was coming into the parking lots, which were having difficulty accommodating them. Inquiries had revealed that most of the cars' occupants were from Meadowood community-members of the anti-noise demonstration which Lie utenant Ordway had already heard about. As per the lieutenant's orders, the desk sergeant said, police reinforcements were on their way to the terminal.A few hundred feet from Lieutenant Ordway, in a passenger waiting area, the little old lady from San Diego, Mrs. Ada Quonsett, paused in her conversation with young Peter Coakley of Trans America, while both listened to the announcement of Flight Two. They were seated, side by side, on one of a series of black, leather padded benches. Mrs. Quonsett had been describing the virtues of her late husband in the same kind of terms which Queen Victoria must have used when speaking of Prince Albert. "Such a dear person, so very wise, and handsome. He came to me in later life, but I imagine, when he was young, he must have been very much like you." Peter Coakley grinned sheepishly, as he had done many times in the past hour and a half. Since leaving Tanya Livingston, with instructions to remain with the old lady stowaway until the departure of her return flight for Los Angeles, their talk had consisted chiefly of a monologue by Mrs. Quonsett in which Peter Coakley was compared frequently and favorably with the late Herbert Quonsett. lt was a subject of which Peter was becoming decidedly weary. He was unaware that that was what Ada Quonsett astutely intended. Surreptitiously, Peter Coakley yawned; this was not the kind of work he had expected when he became a Trans America passenger agent. He felt an absolute fool, sitting here in uniform, playing dry nurse to a harmless, garrulous old dame who could have been his great-grandmother. lie hoped this duty would be over soon. It was bad luck that Mrs. Quonsett's flight to Los Angeles, like most others tonight, was being further delayed by the storm; otherwise the old girl would have been on her way an hour ago. He hoped to goodness that the L.A. flight would be called soon. Meanwhile, the announcement about Flight Two, which was continuing, made a welcome, if brief, respite. Young Peter Coakley had already forgotten Tanya's cautioning words: "Remember … she's got a barrelful of tricks.»«Fancy that!" Mrs. Quonsett said when the announcemeni ended. "A flight to Rome! An airport is so interesting, don't you think, especially for a young, intelligent person like you? Now there was a place-Rome –which my late, dear husband wanted us both to visit." She clasped her hands, a wispy lace handkerchief between them, and sighed. "We never did." While she talked, Ada Quonsett's mind was ticking like a fine Swiss watch. What she wanted was to give this child in a man's uniform the slip. Although he was plainly becoming bored, boredom itself was not enough-, he was still here. What she had to do was develop a situation in which boredom would become carelessness. But it needed to be soon. Mrs. Quonsett had not forgotten her original objec-tive-bo stow away on a flight to New York. She had listened carefully for New York departure announcements, and five flights of various airlines had been called, but none was at the right moment, with any reasonable chance of getting away from her young custodian, unnoticed. Now, she had no means of knowing if there would be another New York departure before the Trans America flight to Los Angeles-the flight which she was supposed to go on, but didn't want to. Anything, Mrs. Quonsett brooded, would be better than going back to Los Angeles tonight. Anything!even . . . a sudden thought occurred to her . . . even getting aboard that flight to Rome. She hesitated. Why not? A lot of things she had said tonight about Herbert were untrue, but it was true that they had once looked at some picture postcards of Rome together . . . If she got no farther than Rome airport, she would at least have been there; it would be something to tell Blanche when she finally got to New York. Just as satisfying, it would be spitting in the eye of that red-headed passenger agent bitch … But could she manage it? And what was the gate number they had just announced? Wasn't it . . . gate forty-seven in the Blue Concourse "D"? Yes, she was sure it was. Of course, the flight might be full, with no space for a stowaway or anyone else, but that was always a chance you took. Then for a flight to Italy, she supposed, people needed passports to get aboard; she would have to see how that worked out. And even now, if there was a flight announcement for New York. . . The main thing was not just to sit here, but to do something. Mrs. Quonsett fluttered her frail, lined hands. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "Oh dear!" The fingers of her right hand moved, hovering near the top of her old-fashioned, high-necked blouse. She dabbed at her mouth with the 1,ace handkerchief and emitted a soft, low moan. A look of alarm sprang to the young ticket agent's face. "What is it, Mrs. Quonsett? What's wrong?" Her eyes closed, then opened; she gave several short gasps. "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I don't feel at all well." Peter Coakley inquired anxiously, "Do you want me to get help? A doctor?" "I don't want to be a nuisance.»«You won't be. . .»«No." Mrs. Quonsett shook her bead weakly. "I think I'll just go to the ladies' room. I expect I'll be all right." The young ticket agent appeared doubtful. He didn't want the old girl dying on him, though she looked ready for it. He asked uneasily, "Are you sure?" "Yes, quite sure." Mrs. Quonsett decided she didn't want to attract attention here, not in the main part of the terminal. There were too many people nearby who would be watching. "Please help me up … thank you . . . now, if you'll just give me your arm. I believe the ladies' room is over there." On the way, she threw in a couple of low moans, producing anxious glances from Peter Coakley. She reassured him, "I've had an attack like this before. I'm sure I'll feet better soon." At the door to the women's room she released young Coakley's arm. "You're very kind to an old lady. So many young people nowadays … Oh, dear! . . ." She cautioned herself: that was enough; she must be careful not to overdo it. "You'll wait here for me? You won't go away?" "Oh, no. I won't go.»«Thank you." She opened the door and went in. There were twenty or thirty women inside; everything at the airport was busy tonight, Mrs. Quonsett thought, including washrooms. Now she needed an ally. She looked the field over carefully before selecting a youngish secretary-type woman in a beige suit, who didn't seem in a hurry. Mrs. Quonsett crossed to her. "Excuse me, I'm not feeling very well. I wonder if you'd help me." The little old lady from San Diego fluttered her hands and closed and opened her eyes, as she had for Peter Coakley. The younger woman was concerned at once. "Of course I'll help. Would you like me to take you . . .»«No . . . Please." Mrs. Quonsett leaned against a
washbasin, apparently for support. "All I want is to send a message. There's a young man outside the door in airline uniform-Trans America. His name is Mr. Coakley. Please tell him … yes, I would like him to get a doctor after all.»«I'll tell him. Will you be all right until I get back?" Mrs. Quonsett nodded. "Yes, thank you. But you will come back … and tell me.»«Of course." Within less than a minute the younger woman had returned. "He's sending for a doctor right away. Now, I think you should rest. Why don't. . ." Mrs. Quonsett stopped leaning on the basin. "You mean he's already gone?" "He went immediately." Now all she had to do, Mrs. Quonsett thought, was get rid of this woman. She closed and opened her eyes again. "I know it's asking a great deal . . . you've already been so good . . . but my daughter is waiting for me by the main door, near United Air Lines.»«You'd like me to get her for you? Bring her here?" Mrs. Quonsett touched the lace handkerchief to her lips. "I'd be so grateful, though really it's an imposition.»«I'm sure you'd do as much for me. How will I know your daughter?" "She's wearing a long mauve coat and a small white hat with yellow flowers. She has a little dog-a French poodle." The secretary-type woman smiled. "That should be easy. I won't be long.»«It is so good of you." Ada Quonsett waited only a moment or two after the woman had gone. Mrs. Quonsett hoped, for her temporary helper's sake, she did not spend too much time searching for an imaginary figure in a mauve coat, accompanied by a non-existent French poodle. Smiling to herself, the little old lady from San Diego left the washroom, walking spryly. No one accosted her as she moved away and was absorbed in the surging terminal crowds. Now, she thought, which was the way to the Blue Concourse "D," and gate forty-seven?To Tanya Livingston, the Flight Two announcement was like a scoreboard change at a quadruple-header ball game. Four Trans America flights were, at the moment, in various stages of departure; in her capacity as pas– senger relations agent, Tanya was liaising with them all. As well, she had just had an irritating session with a passenger from an incoming flight from Kansas City. The aggressive, fast-talking passenger complained that his wife's leather traveling case, which appeared on the arrivals carousel with a rip in its side, had been damaged as a result of careless handling. Tanya did not believe him-the rip looked like an old one-but, as Trans America and other airlines invariably did, she offered to settle the claim on the spot, for cash. The difficulty had been in arriving at an agreeable sum. Tanya offered thirty-five dollars, which she considered to be more than the bag's value; the passenger held out for forty-five. Finally they settled at forty dollars, though what the complainant didn't know was that a passenger relations agent had authority to go to sixty dollars to get rid of a nuisance claim. Even when suspecting fraud, airlines found it cheaper to pay up quickly than enter into a prolonged dispute. In the– ory, ticket agents were supposed to note damaged bags .at check-in, but seldom did; as a result, passengers who knew the ropes sometimes replaced worn-out luggage in that way. Though the money was not her own, Tanya always hated parting with it when, in her opinion, the airline was being cheated. Now, she turned her attention to helping round up stragglers for Flight Two, some of whom were still coming in. Fortunately, the bus with downtown checkins had arrived several minutes earlier, and most of its passengers had by now been directed to'Concourse "D," gate forty-seven. In a minute or two, Tanya decided, in case there were any last-minute passenger probiems
during boarding, she would go to gate forty-seven herself.D. 0. Guerrero heard the announcement of Flight Two whitc in line at the insurance counter in the terminal central concourse. It was Guerrero, appearing hurried and nervous, whom Captain Vernon Dernerest had seen arrive there, carrying his small attach6 case which contained the dynamite bomb. Guerrero had come directly from the bus to the insurance counter, where he was now fifth in line. Two people at Lhe head of the line were being dealt with by a pair of girl clerks who were working with maddening slowness. One of the clerks-a heavy-chested blonde in a tow-cut blouse-was having a prolonged conversation with her present customer, a middle-aged woman. The clerk was apparently suggesting that the woman take out a larger policy than had been asked for; the woman was being indecisive. Obviously, it would take at least twenty minutes for Guerrero to reach the head of the line, but by then Flight Two would probably be gone. Yet he had to buy insurance; he had to be aboard. The p.a. announcement had said that the flight was being boarded at gate forty-seven. Guerrero should be at the gate now. He felt himself trembling. His hands were clammy on the attach6 case handle. He checked his watch again, for the twentieth time, comparing it with the terminal clock. Six minutes had gone by since the announcement of Flight Two. The final call … the airplane doors closing … could come at any moment. He would have to do something. D. 0. Guerrero pushed his way roughly to the head of the line. He was past caring about being noticed, or offending. A man protested, "Hey, buddy, we're waiting too." Guerrero ignored him. He addressed the bigbreasted blonde. "Please . . . my flight has been called –the one to Rome. I need insurance. I can't wait." The min who had spoken before interjected, "Then go withoul. Another time, get here sooner." Guerreio was tempted to retort: There won't be an– other time. Instead, he addressed himself to the blonde again. "Pleiise!" To his surprise, she sn-.Liled warmly; he had been expecting a rebuff. "You did say Rome?" "Yes, yes. The flight's been called.»«I know. She smiled again. "Trans America Flight Two. It is called The Golden Argosy." Despite his anxiety, he was aware that the girl had a sexy European accent, probably Hungarian. D. 0. Guerrero made an effort to speak normally. "That's right." The girl turned her smile on the others who were waiting. "This gentleman really does not have much time. I'm sure you will not mind if I oblige him first." So much had gone wrong tonight that he could scarcely believe his good luck. There was some muttered grumbling in the line of people waiting, but the man who had done the talking until now was silent. The girl produced an insurance application form. She beamed at the woman she had been dealing with. "This will only take a moment." Then she turned her smile again on D. 0. Guerrero. For the first time he realized how effective the smile was, and why there had been no real protest from the others. When the girl looked at him directly, Guerrero –who was seldom affected by women-had the feeling he was going to melt. She also had the biggest tits he had ever seen. "My name is Bunnie," the girl said in her European accent. "What is yours?" Her ballpoint pen was poised.As a vendor of airport flight insurance, Bunnie Vorobioff was a remarkable success. She had come to the United States, not from Hungary as D. 0. Guerrero had supposed, but from Glauchau in the southern portion of East Germany, via the Berlin Wall. Bunnie (who was then Gretchen Vorobioff, the homely, flat-chested daughter of a minor Communist official and a Young Communist herself) crossed the wall at night with two male companions. The young men were caught by searchlights, shot and killed; their
bodies hunli for twenty-four hours on barbed wire, in public view. Bunnie avoided the searchlights and small arms fire and survived, survival being a quality which seemed to come to her naturally. Later, on arrival as a U.S. immigrant at age twentyone, she had embraced American free enterprise and its goodies with the enthusiasm of a religious convert. She worked hai d as a hospital aide, in which she had some training, and moonlighted as a waitress. Into the remaining time she somehow crammed a Berlitz course in English, and also managed to get to bed-occasionally to sleep, more often with interns from the hospital. The interns repaid Gretchen's sexual favors by introducing her to silicone breast injections, which started casually and ended by being a joyous group experiment to see just how big her breasts would get. Fortunately, before they could become more than gargantuan, she exercised another new-found freedom by quitting her hospital job for one with more money. Somewhere along the way she was taken to Washington, D.C., and toured the White House, the Capitol, and the Playboy Club. After the last, Gretchen further Americanized herself by adopting the name Bunnie. Now, a year and a half later, Bunnie Vorobioff was totally assimilated. She was in an Arthur Murray dancing class, the Blue Cross and Columbia Record Club, had a charge account at Carson Pirie Scott, subscribed to Reader's Digest and TV Guide, was buying the World Book Encyclopedia on time, owned a wig and a Volkswagen, collected trading stamps, and was on PHIS. Bunnie also loved contests of all kinds, especially those which held a hope of tangible reward. Along these lines, a reason she enjoyed her present job more than any other she had had so far, was that periodically her insurance company employers held sales contests for its staff, with merchandise prizes. One such contest was in progress now. It would end tonight. The contest was the reason why Bunnie had reacted so agreeably when D. 0. Guerrero announced that he was on his way to Rome. At this moment Bunnie needed forty more points to win her objective in the present sales contest-an electric toothbrush. For a while tonight she had despaired of completing her total of points before the deadline, since insurance policies she had sold today were mostly for domestic flights; these produced lower premiums and earned fewer contest points. However, if a maximum size policy could be sold for an overseas flight, it would earn twenty-five contest poirts, bringing the remainder within easy reach. The question was: How big an insurance policy did this Rome passenger want and, assuming it was less than the maximum, could Bunnie Vorobioff sell him more? Usually she could. Bunnie merely turned on her most sexy smile, which she had learned to use like an instant warming oven, leaned close to the customer so that her breasts bemused him, then announced how much more benefit could be had for an additional small sum of money. Most times the ploy worked and was the reason for Bunnie's success as an insurance saleswoman. When D. 0. Guerrero had spelled out his name, she asked, "What kind of policy were you considering, sir?" Guerrero swallowed. "Straight life-seventy-five thousand dollars." Now that. he had said it, his mouth was dry. He had a sudden feai that his words had alerted everyone in the line-up; their eyes were boring into his back. His entire body was trembling; be was sure it would be noticed. To cover up, he lit a cigarette, but his hand was shaking so much that he had trouble bringing match and cigarette together. Fortunately, the girl, with her pen hovering over the entry "principal sum," appeared not to notice. Bunnie pronounced, "That would cost two dollars and fifty cents.»«What? … Oh, yes." Guerrero managed to light the cigarette, then dropped the match. He reached into his pocket for some of the small amount of money he had remaining. "But it is quite a tiny policy." Bunnie Vorobioff had still not m,,,rked in the principal sum. Now she leaned forward, bi-inging her breasts nearer to the customer. She could see him looking down at them with fascina– tion; men always did. Some, she sensed at times, wanted to reach out and touch. Not this man, though. "Tiny?" Guerrero's speech was awkward, halting. "I thought . . . it was the biggest." Even to Bunnie, the man's nervousness was now apparent. She supposed it was because he would be flying soon. She directed a dazzling smile across the counter. "Oh no, sir; you could buy a three hundred thousand dollar policy. Most people do, and for just ten dollars premium. Really, it isn't much to pay for all that protection, is it?" She kept her smile switched on; the response could mcan a difference of nearly twenty contest points; it might gain or lose her the electric toothbrush. "You said … ten dollars?" "That's right-for three hundred thousand dollars." D. 0. Guerrero thought: He hadn't known. All along, he had believed that seventy-five thousand dollars was the top firnit for airport-purchase insurance for an overseas flight. He had obtained the information from an insurance application blank which, a month or two ago, he had picked up at another airport. Now he remembered-the earlier blank came from an automatic vending machine. It had not occurred to him that overthe-counter policies could be that much greater. Three hundred thousand dollars! "Yes," he said eagerly. "Please … yes." Bunnie beamed. "The full amount, Mr. Guerrero?" He wa,,~ about to nod assent when the supreme irony occurred to him. He probably did not possess ten dollars. He told Bunnie, "Miss . . . wait!" and began searching his pockets, pulling out whatever money he could find. The po)ple in line behind were becoming restive. The man who had objected to Guerrero to begin with, protested to Bunnie, "You said he'd just take a minute!" Guerrero had found four dollars and seventy cents. Two nights ago, when D. 0. Guerrero and Inez had pooled their last remaining money, D.O. had taken eight dollars, plus small change, for himself. After pawning Inez's ring and making the down payment on the Trans America ticket, there had been a few dollars left; he wasn't sure how many, but since then he had paid for meals, subway fares, the airport bus . . . He had known that he would need two and a half dollars for flight insurance, and had kept it carefully in a separate pocket. But beyond that he hadn't bothered, aware that once aboard Flight Two, money would be of no further use. "If you don't have cash," Bunnie Vorobioff said, t4you can give me a check.»«I left my checkbook home." It was a lie; there were checks in his pocket. But if he wrote a check, it would bounce and invalidate the insurance. Bunnie persisted, "How about your Italian money, Mr. Guerrero? I can take lire and give you the proper rate.» He muttered, "I don't have Italian money," then cursed himself for having said it. Downtown he had checked in without baggage for a flight to Rome. Now insanely, he had demonstrated before onlookers that he had no money, either American or Italian. Who would board an overseas flight unequipped and penniless, except someone who knew the flight would never reach its destination? Then D. 0. Guerrero reminded himself … exceptin his own mind . . . the two incidents-downtown and here-were unconnected. They would not be connected until afterward, and by then it wouldn't matter. He reasoned, as he had on the way out: It was not the strength of suspicion which was important. The crucial facter would still be the absence of wreckage, the absence of proof. Surprisin.gly, despite his latest gaffe, he discovered he was growing more confident. He adde~i some (limes and pennies to the pile of change on the insurance counter. Then, miraculously, in an inside pocket, he found a five-dollar bill. Not concealing his excitement, Guerrero exclaimed, "That's it! I have enough!" There was even a dollar or so in small change left over. But everr Bunnie Vorobioff was doubtful now. In-stead of writing the three hundred thousand dollar policy which the man was waiting for, she hesitated. While he had searched his pockets, she had been watching the customer's face. It was strange, of course, that this man was going overseas without money, but, after all, that was his own business; there could be plenty of reasons for it. What really bothered her was his eyes; they held a hint of frenzy, desperation. Both were qualities which Bunnie Vorobioff recognized from her past. She had seen them in others. At moments-though it seemed long agoshe had been close to them herself. Bunnie's insurance company employers had a standing instruction: If a purchaser of flight insurance seemed irrational, unusually excited, or was drunk, the fact was to be reported to the airline on which he was traveling. The question for Bunnic was: Was this an occasion to invoke the rule? She wasn't sure. The company standing instruction was sometimes discussed, among themselves, by flight insurance sales clerks. Some of the girls resented or ignored it, arguing that they were hired to sell insurance, not to act as unpaid, unqualified psychologists. Others pointed out that many people who bought flight insurance at an airport were nervous to begin with; how could anyone, without special training, decide where nervousness ended and irrationality began? Bunnie herself had never reported a keyed-up passenger, though she knew a girl who had, and the passenger turned out to be an airline vice president, excited because his wife was going to have a baby. There had been all kinds of trouble over that. Still Bunnie hesitated. She had covered her hesitation by counting the man's money on the counter. Now she wondered if Marj, the other clerk working beside her, had noticed anytbing unusual. Apparently not. Marj was busy writing a policy, earning her contest points. In the ~-nd, it was Bunnie Vorobioff's past which swayed her decision. Her formative years … occupied Europe, her flight to the West, the Berlin Wall . . . had taught her survival, and conditioned her to something else: to curb curiosity, and not to ask unnecessary questions. Ouestions had a way of leading to involvement, and involv,,-ment-in other people's problems-was something to be avoided when one had problems of one's own. Without further questioning, at the same time solving her problem of how to win an electric toothbrush, Bunnie Vorobioff wrote a flight insurance policy, for three hundred thousand dollars, on D. 0. Guerrero's life. Guerrero mailed the policy to his wife, Inez, on his way to gate forty-seven and Flight Two. 13U. S. Customs Inspector Harry Standish did not hear the announcement of Flight Two's impending departure, but knew it had been made. Flight announcements were not relayed to the Customs Hall, since only international arriving passengers came there, so Standish obtained his information on the telephone, from Trans America Airlines. He had been informed that Flight Two was beginning to load at gate forty-seven and would depart at its rescheduled time of 11 P.m. Standish was watching the clock and would go to gate forty-seven in a few minutes, not on official business, but to say goodbye to his niece, Judy-his sister's child –who was leaving for a year's schooling in Europe. Standish had promised his sister, who lived in Denver, that he would see Judy off. Earlier this evening, in the terminal, bo had spent some time with his niece-a pleasant, seff-possessed girl of eighteen-and had said he would drop around for a final goodbye before her flight took off.
Meanwhile, Inspector Standish was trying to clear up a tiresome problem near the end of what had been an exceptionally harassing day. "Madam," he said quietly to the haughty, angular woman whose several suitcases were spread open on the Customs inspection table between them, "are you quite sure you don't wish to change your story?" She snapped back, "I suppose you're suggesting I should lie, when I've already told you the truth. Really! –you people are so officious, so disbelieving, I sometimes wonder if we're not living in a police state." Harry Standish ignored the second remark, as Customs officers were trained to ignore the many insults they received, and answered politely, "I'm not suggesting anything, madam. I merely asked if you wished to amend your statement about these items-the dresses, the sweaters, and the fur coat." ne woman, whose American passport showed that she was Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman who lived in Evanston, and had just returned from a month in En– gland, France, and Denmark, replied acidly, "No, I don't. Furthermore, when my husband's lawyer hears of this interrogation . . .»«Yes madam," Harry Standish said. "In that case, I wonder if you'd mind signing this form. If you like, I'll explain it to you." The dresses, sweaters, and fur coat were spread out on top of the suitcases. Mrs. Mossman had been wearing the coat-a sable jacket-until a few minutes ago when Inspector Standish arrived at Customs inspection station number eleven; he had asked her to take the coat off so that he could look at it more closely. Shortly before that, a red light on a wall panel near the center of the big Customs Hall had summoned Standish. The lights-one for each station-indicated that an inspecting officer had a problem and needed supervisory help. Now, the young Customs man who had dealt with Mrs. Mossman originally was standing at Inspector StandisY,'i side. Most of the other passengers, who had arrived aboard a Scandinavian Airlines DC-8 from Copenhagen had cleared Customs and had left. Only this well-dressed American woman posed a problem, insisting that all she had bought in Europe was some perfume, costume jewelry, and shoes. The total declared value was ninety dollars-ten dollars less than the free exemption she was allowed. The young officer had been suspicious. "Why should I sign anything?" Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman demanded. Standish alanced at an overhead clock; it was a quarter to eleven. He still had time to finish this and reach Flight Two before it left. He answered patiently, "To make things easier for yourself, madam. We're, merely asking you to confirm in writing what you've already told is. You say the dresses were purchased. . .»«How many times must I tell you? They were bought in Chicago and New York before I left for Europe; so were the swcaters. The coat was a gift-purchased in the United States. I received it six months ago." Why, Har:y Standish wondered, did people do it? All the statements just made, he knew with certainty, were lies. To begin with, the dresses-six, all of good quality –had had their labels removed. No one did that innocently; women were usually proud of the labels in quality clothes. More to the point-the workmanship of the dresses Nkas unmistakably French; so was the styling of the fur coat-thouah a Saks Fifth Avenue label bad been sewn unskillfully in the coat lining. What people like Mrs. Mossman faded to realize was that a trained Customs man didn't need to see labels to know where garments ori!~inated. Cutting, stitching-even the way a zipper was put in-were like familiar handwriting, and equally distinctive. The same thing was true of the three expensive sweat ers. They also were without labels, and were unmistak ably from Scotland, in typical British "drab" shades, not available in the United States. When a U.S. store ordered similar sweaters, the Scottish mills made them in much bri ' ~4hter colors, which the North American market favocced. All this, and much else, Customs officers learned as part of their training.
Mrs. Mossman asked, "What happens if I sign the form?" "Then you may go, madam.»«And take my things with me? All my things?" "Yes.»«Supposing I refuse to sign?" "Then we shall be obliged to detain you here while we continue the investigation." There was the briefest hesitation, then: "Very well. You fill out the form; I'll sign.»«No, madarn; you fill it out. Now here, please describe the items, and alongside where you say they were obtained. Please give the name of the stores; also from whom you received the fur coat as a gift . . ." Harry Standish thought: He would have to leave in a minute; it was ten to eleven now. He didn't want to reach Flight Two after the doors were closed. But first be had a hunch … He waited while Mrs. Mossman completed the form and signed it. Commencing tomorrow, an investigative officer would begin checking out the statement Mrs. Mossman had just made. The dresses and sweaters would be requisitioned and taken to the stores where she claimed they were purchased; the fur jacket would be shown to Saks Fifth Avenue, who would undoubtedly disown it . . . Mrs. Mossman-though she didn't know it yet-was in for a great deal of trouble, including some heavy Customs duty to be paid, and almost certainly a stiff fine. "Madam," Inspector Standish said, "is there anything else you wish to declare?" Mrs. Mossman snapped indignantly, "There certainly isn't!" "You're sure?" It was Customs Bureau policy to give travelers the utmost opportunity to make voluntary declarations. People were not to be entrapped unless they brought it on themselves. Not deigning to reply, Mrs. Mossman inclined her head disdainfully. "In that case, madam," Inspector Standish said, "will you kindly open your handbag?" For the first time the haughty woman betrayed uncertainty. "But surely, purses are never inspected. I've been through Customs many times . . .»«Normally they are not. But we do have the right." Asking to see the contents of a woman's handbag was a rarity; like a man's pockets, a handbag was considered personal an(] almost never looked into. But when an individual chose to be difficult, Customs men could be difficult too. Reluctantly, Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman unclipped her purse. I-Tarry Standish inspected a lipstick and a gold compact. When he probed the powder in the compact, he extracted a diamond and ruby ring: he blew the powder on the ring away. There was a tube of hand lotion, partially used. Unrolling the tube, he could see that the bottom had been opened. When he pressed the tube near the top, there was something hard inside. He wondered when would-be smugglers would come up with something original. Such old tricks! He bad seen them all many times. Mrs. Mossman was noticeably pale. Her hauteur bad disappeared. "Madam," Inspector Standish said, "I have to leave for a short while, but I'll be back. In any case, this is going to take some time." He instructed the young Customs officer beside him, "Inspect everything else very carefully. Check the linings of the bag and cases, the seams and hems of all the clothes. Make a list. You know what to do." He was leaving when Mrs. Mossman called after him. "Officer!" He stopped. "Yes, madam.»«About the coat and dresses … perhaps I did make a mistake … I was confused. I did buy them, and there are some other things . . ." Standish shook his head. What people never seemed to learn was that there had to be a cut-off point somewhere; after that, cooperation was too late. He saw that the young officer had found something else. "Please! . . . . I beg of you my husbandAs
the Inspector turned away, the woman's face was white and drawn. Walking briskly, Harry Standish used a short cut, below the public portion of the terminal, to reach Concourse "D" and gate forty-seven. As he went, he reflected on the foolishness of Mrs. Harriet Du'Barry Mossman and the many like her. Had she been honest about the coat and dresses, and declared them, the duty payable would not have been great, especially for someone who was clearly well-to-do. The young Customs officer, though noticing the sweaters, probably would not have bothered with them; and certainly her handbag would not have been inspected. Customs men were aware that most returning travelers did a little smuggling, and were often tolerant about it. Also, if asked, they would help people lump high-duty items under their duty-free exemption, charging duty on other articles which were entitled to lower rates. The people who got nabbed, hit hard, and were sometimes prosecuted, were invariably the greedy ones like Mrs. Mossman, who tried to get away with everything. What had depressed Harry Standish today was the number of others of her kind. He was relieved to see that the doors of Trans America Flight Two had not yet closed, and a few remaining passengers were still being checked in. His U.S. Customs uniform was a passport anywhere within the airport, and the busy gate agent barely glanced up as Inspector Standish went past. The gate agent, Standish noticed, was being helped by a red-headed woman passenger relations agent whom he knew as Mrs. Livingston. The inspector entered the walkway to the tourist section; a stewardess was at the rear airplane doorway. He smiled. "I'll only be a moment. Don't take off with me aboard." He found his niece, Judy, in an aisle seat of a threeseat section. She was keeping a baby amused, the baby belonging to a young couple in the two seats alongside. Like all airplane tourist sections, this one already seemed cramped and crowded, the seats oppressively close to one another. On the few air journeys Inspector Standish made himself, he traveled tourist, but always had a sense of claustrophobia. Tonight he didn't envy any of these people the monotonous ten-hour journey which lay ahead of them. "Uncle Harry!" Judy said. "I thought you weren't going to make it." She handed the baby back to its mother. "I just carne to say God bless!" he told her. "Have a good year, and when you come back don't try any smuggling." She laughed. "I won't. Goodbye, Uncle Harry." His niece put her face up to be kissed, and be bussed her affectionately. He felt good about Judy. He had a feeling she would not grow up to be a Mrs. Mossman. Leaving the aircraft, with a friendly nod to the stewardesses, the Customs inspector paused a moment at the concourse gate, watching. The last moments before departure of any flight, especially one for some far distant place, always fascinated him, as it did many people. The final call . . . "Trans America Airlines announce the immediate departure of Flight Two, The Golden Argosywas just coming over the p.a. system. The knot of people waiting to board had been reduced to two. The redheaded passenger agent, Mrs. Livingston, was gathering up her papers as the regular gate agent dealt with the last arrival but one-a tall blond man, hatless, and wearing a camel-hair coat. Now, the blond man left the agent's desk and entered the tourist section walkway. Mrs. Livingston left too, walking away from the departure gate, toward the main section of the terminal. While he had been watching, Inspector Standish was aware, almost subconsciously, of someone else nearby, facing a window which looked away from the departure gate. Now the figure turned. He saw that it was an old lady; she appeared small, demure, and frail. She was dressed primly in black in an old-fashioned style, and carried a black beaded purse. She looked as if she needed somebody to take care of her, and he wondered
why someone so old, and apparently alone, was here so late at night. Moving with surprising spryness, the old lady crossed to where the Trans America ticket agent was dealing with the last Flight Two passenger. Standish heard some, though not all, of what was said; the old lady's words were punctuated by noise from outside, from the aircraft engines, which were being started. "Excuse . . . my son just boarded … blond hair, no hat, camel-hair coat … forgot his wallet … all his money." The old lady, Standish observed, was holding what looked like a man's billfold. The gMe agent glanced up impatiently. He appeared harassed; gate men usually were at the last moments of departure. The agent put out his hand to take the wallet, then, observing the old lady, changed his mind and said something quickly. He pointed to the tourist boarding walkway and Standish heard, "Ask a stewardess." The old lady smiled and nodded, and entered the walkway. A moment later she was out of sight. All that Customs Inspector Standish had observed had taken only moments-perhaps less than a minute. Now, he saw a newcomer arrive-a stoop-shouldered, spindly man, hurrying down Concourse "D" toward gate forty-seven. The man had a gaunt face and a slight sandy mustache. He was carrying a small attach6 case. Standish had been about to turn away, but something about the man attracted his attention. It was the way the newcomer was holding his case-under his arm, protectively. Harry Standish had watched people, many times, doing the same thing as they came through Customs. It was a giveaway that whatever was inside the case was something they wanted to conceal. If this man had been coming in from overseas, Standish would have had him open the case, and would have examined its contents. But the man was going out of the United States. Strictly speaking, it was none of Harry Standish's business. Yet something . . . instinct, a sixth sense which Customs men developed, plus a personal connection, through Judy, with Flight Two … something kept the inspector watching, his eyes directed at the small attach6 case which the spindly man still cradled.The feeling of corifidence which returned to D. 0. Guerrero at the insurance counter had remained. As he approached gate forty-seven, observing that he was still in time for Flight Two, he had a conviction that most of his difficulties were over; from now on, he assured himself, everything would work out as he had foreseen. In keeping with this belief, there was no problem at the gate. As he had planned from the beginning, at this point he drew attention to the minor discrepancy between the name "Buerrero" on his ticket and "Guerrero" on his passport. Barely glancing at the passport, the gate agent corrected both the ticket and his passenger list, then apologized, "Sorry, sir; sometimes our reservation machines get careless." Now, Guerrero noted with satisfaction, his name was recorded properly; later, when Flight Two was reported missing, there would be no doubt about his own identification. "Have a pleasant flight, sir." The gate agent returned his ticket folder and motioned toward the tourist section walkway. As D. 0. Guerrero went aboard, still holding his attach6 case carefully, the starboard engines were already running. His numbered seat-by a window in a three-seat seetion-had been allocated when he checked in downtown. A stewardess directed him to it. Another male passenger, already in the aisle seat, stood up partially as Guerrero squeezed by. The center seat, between them, was unoccupied. D. 0. Guerrero balanced his case cautiously on his knees as he strapped himself in. His seat was midway in the tourist section, on the left side. Elsewhere in the cabin, other passengers were still settling down, ar– ranging hand baggage and clothing; a few people were blocking the center aisle. One of the stewardesses, her lips moving silently, and looking as if she wished everyone would keep still, was making a count of heads. Relaxing for the first time since leaving the South
Side apartment, D, 0. Guerrero leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. His hands, steadier than at any other time this evening, were firmly on the attach6 case. Without opening his eyes, his fingers groped under the handle and located the all-important loop of string. The feel of it was reassuring. He would sit precisely like this, he decided, when in approximately four hours from now he would pull the string, releasing the electrical current which would fire the massive charge of dynamite within the case. When the moment came, he wondered, how much would he have time to know? In answer, he reasoned: there would be an instant … one fleeting particle of a second only … when he would savor, triumphantly, rhe knowledge of success. Then, mercifully, no more … Now that he was aboard and ready, he wished the flight would go. But when he opened his eyes, the same stewardess was still counting.There were two stewardesses, at the moment, in the tourist cabin. The little old lady from San Diego, Mrs. Ada Quonsett, had been observing them both, intermittently, peering through the slightly opened door of a toilet where she was hiding. The pre-takeoff head count by a stewardess, now being made, was something which Mrs. Quonsett knew about; she was also aware that this was the moment when anyone who was aboard illegally was closest to exposure. But if a stowaway could survive the count, chances were that she (or he) would not be detected until much later, if at all. Fortunately, the stewardess now making the head count was not the one whom Mrs. Quonsett encountered when she came aboard. Mrs. Quonsett had had a few anxious moments outside while she cautiously watched the redheaded passenger agent bitch, whom she had been distressed to find on duty at gate forty-seven. Fortunately, the woman had left just before the flight finished loading, and getting past the male gate agent proved easy. After that, Mrs. Quonsett repeated her story about the wallet to the stewardess on duty at the aircraft door-way. The stewardess, who was trying to cope with queries from several other people milling in the entranceway, declined to accept the wallet when she learned there was "a lot of money in it"-a reaction Mrs. Quonsett had counted on. Also as expected, the little old lady was told she could take the wallet to her son herself, if she was quick. The tall blond man who, all unknowingly, had been a i9son" to Mrs. Quonsett, was getting into a seat near the front of the cabin– Mrs. Quonsett moved in his direction, but only briefly. She was watching covertly, waiting for the attention of the stewardess near the door to be diverted. Almost at once it was. Mrs. Quonsett had left her plans flexible. There was a seat close by, which she could have occupied; however, a sudden movement by several passengers at once left a clear path to one of the aircraft toilets. A moment or two later, through the partially opened toilet door, she saw the original stewardess go forward out of sight and another stewardess begin the head count, starting at the front. ,When the second stewardess-still counting-neared the back of the airplane, Mrs. Quonsett emerged from the toilet and walked quickly past with a muttered, "Excuse me." She heard the stewardess cluck her tongue impatiently. Mrs. Quonsett sensed that she had now been included in the count-but that was all. A few rows forward, on the left side, there was an unoccupied seat in the middle of a section of three. In her experience as an aerial stowaway, the little old lady from San Diego had learned to seek such seats because most passengers disliked them; therefore they were the last to be chosen from seat selection boards and, where an airplane was less than full, were usually left empty. Once in the seat, Mrs. Quonsett kept her head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She had no illusion that she could avoid discovery indefinitely. At Rome there would be Immigration and Customs formalities, making it impossible for her to walk away unimpeded, as she was accustomed to doing after her
illegal flights to New York; but, with luck, she would have the thrill of reaching Italy, plus an agreeable journey back. Meanwhile, on this flight, there would be a good meal, a movie, and, later, perhaps, a pleasant conversation with her two seat companions. Ada Ouonsett wondered about her seat companions. She had noticed that both were men, but for the time being avoided looking at the man on her right since it would mean turning her face toward the aisle and the stewardesses, both of whom were now moving back and forth, making another head count. Mrs. Quonsett took covert stock, however, of the man on her left, a survey made easier by the fact that be was reclining and had his eyes closed. He was a gaunt, thin man, she observed, with a sadow face and scrawny neck, who looked as if a hearty meal might do him good. He had a small sandy mustache. On his knees, Mrs. Quonsett noticed, the man on her left bad in attach6 case and, despite the fact that his eyes were closed, he was holding it firmly. The stcwardesses bad finished their head count. Now a third stcwardess appeared from the first class compartment forward, and the three of them were holding a hurried consultation. The man on Mrs. Quonsett's left had opened his eyes. He was still gripping the case tightly. The little old lady from San Diego-an habitually curious soul-wondered what was inside.Walking back toward the Customs Hall-this time through the passenger section of the terminal-Tnspector Flarry Standish was still thinking about the man with the attach6 case. Standish could not have questioned th~– man; outside a Customs enclosure a Customs officer had no right to interrogate anyone, unless believing they had evaded Customs inspection. The man at the departure gate quite obviously had not. What Standish could do, of course, was telegraph the man's description to Italian Customs, advising that he might be carrying contraband. But Standish doubted if he would. There was little cooperation between Customs departments iriternationally, only an intense professional rivalry. Even vith Canadian Customs, close at hand, the same thing was true; incidents were on record where U.S. Customs had been tipped of that illegal diamond shipments were being smuggled into Canada, but-as a matter of policy-Canadian authorities were never told. Instead, U.S. agents spotted the suspects on arrival in Canada and tailed them, only making an arrest if they crossed the United States border. The U.S. reasoning was: the country which seized that kind of contraband kept it all, and Customs departments were averse to sharing loot. No, Inspector Standish decided, there would be no telegram to Italy. He would, however, tell Trans America Airlines of his doubts and leave a decision to them. Ahead of him he had seen Mrs. Livingston, the passenger relations agent who had been at the Flight Two departure gate. She was talking with a Skycap and a group of passengers. Harry Standish waited until the Skycap and passengers had gone. "Hullo, Mr. Standish," Tanya said. "I hope things are quieter in Customs than around here.»«They aren't," he told her, remembering Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman, no doubt still being questioned in the Customs Hall. As Tanya waited for him to speak again, Standish hesitated. Sometimes he wondered if he was becoming too much the super sleuth, too aware of the keenness of his instincts. Most times, though, his instincts proved right. "I was watching your Flight Two load," Standish said. "There was something bothered me." He described the gaunt, spindly man and the suspicious way he had been clasping an attach6 case. "Do you think he's smuggling something?" Inspector Standish smiled. "If he were arriving from abroad, instead of leaving, I'd find out. All I can tell Von, Mrs. Livingston, is that there's something in that case which hc'd prefer other people not to know about." Tanya said thoughtfully, "I don't quite know what I
can do." Even if the man was smuggling she was not convinced it was the airline's business. "Probably there's nothing to do. But you people cooperate with us, so I thought I'd pass the information on.»«Thank you, Mr. Standish. I'll report it to our D.T.M., and perhaps he'll want to notify the captain." As the Customs inspector left, Tanya glanced at the overhead terminal clock; it showed a minute to eleven. Heading for Trans America Administration on the executive mezzanine, she reasoned: it was too late now to catch Flight Two at the departure gate; if the flight had not yet left the gate, it certainly would within the next few moments. She wondered if the District Transportation Manager was in his office. If the D.T.M. thought the information important, he might notify Captain Demcrest by radio while Flight Two was still on the ground and taxiing. Tanya hurried. The D.T.M. was not in his office, but Peter Coakley was. Tanya snapped, "What are you doing here?" The YOUng Trans America agent, whom the little old lady from San Diego had eluded, described sheepishly what had happened. Peter Coakley had already received one dressing down. The doctor, summoned to the women's washroom on a fool's errand, had been articulate and wrathful. Young Coakley clearly expected more of the same from Mrs. Livingston. He was not disappointed. Tanya exploded, "Damn, damn, damn!" She remonstrated, "Didn't I warn you she had a barrelful of tricks?" "Yes, you did, Mrs. Livingston. I guess I . . "Never mind that now! Get on the phone to each of our gates– Warn them to be on the lookout for an old, innocent-] ooking woman in black-you know the description. She's trying for New York, but may go a roundabout way. If she's located, the (late agent is to detain her and call here. She is not to be allowed on any flight, no matter what she says. While you're doing that, I'll call the other airlines.»«Yes, ma'am." There were several telephones in the office. Peter Coakley took one, Tanya another. She knew by memory the airport numbers of TWA, American, United, and Northwest; all four airlines had direct New York flights. Talking first with her opposite number in TWA, Jenny Henline, she could hear Peter Coakley saying, "Yes, very old … in black … when you see her, you won't believe it. . .» A contest of minds had developed, Tanya realized, between herself and the ingenious, slippery Ada Quonsett. Who, in the end, Tanya wondered, would outwit the other? For the moment she had forgotten both her conversation with Customs Inspector Standish and her intention to locate the D.T.M.Aboard Might Two, Captain Vernon Dernerest fumed, "What in heH's the holdup?" Engines numbers three and four, on the starboard side of aircraft N-731-TA, were running. Throughout the airplane their subdued but powerful jet thrumming could be felt. The pilots had received ramp supervisor's clearance by interphone, several minutes ago, to start three and four, but were still awaiting clearance to start engines one and two, which were on the boarding side and normally not activated until all doors were closed. A red panel light had winked off a minute or two earlier, indicating that the rear fuselage door was closed and secure; immediately after, the rear boarding walkway was withdrawn. But another bright red light, still glowing, showed that the for-ward cabin door had not been closed, and a glance backward through the cockpit windows confirnied that the front boarding walkway was still in place. Swinging ,,round in his right-hand seat, Captain Demerest instructed Second Officer Jordan, "Open the door." Cy Jordan was seated behind the other two pilots at a complex panel of instruments and engine controls. Now
he half rose and, extending his long, lean figure, released the flight deck door which opened outward. Through the doorway, in the forward passenger section, they could see a half dozen figures in Trans America uniform, Gwen Meighen among them. "Gwen!" Demerest called. As she came into the flight deck, "What the devil's happening?" Gwen looked worried. "The tourist passenger count won't tally. We've made it twice; we still can't agree with the manifest and tickets.»«Is the ramp supervisor there?" "Yes, he's checking our count now.»«I want to see him." At this stage of any airline flight there was always a problem of divided authority. Nominally the captain was already in command, but he could neither start engines nor taxi away without authorization from the ramp supervisor. Both the captain and ramp chief had the same objective-to make an on-schedule departure. However, their differing duties sometimes produced a clash. A moment later, the uniformed ramp supervisor, a single silver stripe denoting his rank, arrived on the flight deck. "Look, chum," Demerest said, "I know you've got problems, but so have we. How much longer do we sit here?" 611've just ordered a ticket recheck, captain. Tbere's one more passenger in the tourist section than there ought to be.»«All righl," Demerest said. "Now I'll tell you something. Even, second we sit here we're burning fuel on three and ','()ur, which you gave the okay to start . . . precious fuel which we need in the air tonight. So unless this airplanc, leaves right now, I'm shutting everything down and we'll send for Fueling to top off our tanks. There's another thing you ought to know: air traffic control. just told us they have a temporary gap in traffic. If we taxi o it right away, we can be off the ground fast; in ten minutes from now that may have changed. Now, you make the decision. What's it to be?" Torn between dual responsibilities, the ramp supervisor hesit-,ited. He knew the captain was right about burning fuel; yet to stop engines now, and top off tanks, would mean a further half hour's costly delay on top of the hour which Flight Two was late already. On the other hand, this was an important international flight on which the bead count and ticket collection ought to agree. If there was really an unauthorized person aboard, and he was found and taken off, later the ramp supervisor could justify his decision to hold. But if the difference in tallies turned out to be a clerical error-as it miglit-tqe D.T.M. would roast him alive. He made the obvious decision. Calling through the flight deck door, he ordered, "Cancel the ticket recheck. This flight is leaving now." As the flight deck door closed, a grinning Anson Harris was on the interphone to a crewman on the ground below. "Clear to start two?" The reply rattled back, "Okay to start two." The forward fuselage door was closed and secured; in the cockpit, its red indicator light winked out. Number two engine fired and held at a steady roar. "Okay to start one?" "Okay to start one." The forward boarding walkway, like a severed umbilical cord, was gliding back toward the terminal. Vernon Demerest was calling ground control on radio for permission to taxi. Number one engine fired and held. In the left seat, Captain Harris, who would taxi out and fly the takeoff, had his feet braced on the rudder pedal toe brakes. It was still snowing hard. "Trans America Flight Two from ground control. You are clear to taxi . . ." The engine tempo quickened. Dernerest thought: Rome … and Naples … here we come! It was I t P.m., Central Standard Time. In Concourse "D," half running, half stumbling, a figure reached gate forty-seven.Even if there had been breath to ask, questions were unneeded. The boarding ramps were closed. Portable signs denoting the departure of Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, were being taken down. A taxiing aircraft was leaving the gate. Helplessly, not knowing what she should do next, Inez Guerrerc, watched the airplane's lights recede.
PART THREE11 P.M.-1:30 A.M. (CST)IAs always at the beginning of a flight, Senior Stewardess Gwen Meighen experienced a sense of relief as the forward cabin door slammed closed and, a few moments later, the aircraft began moving. An airliner in a terminal was like a dependent relative, subject to the whims and succor of its family. Such life as it had was never independent. Its identity was blurred; supply lines hobbled it; strangers, who would never join its airborne complement, moved in and out. But when doors were sealed as the airplane prepared for takeoff, it became once more an entity. Crew members were most keenly aware of the change; they were returned to a familiar, self-contained environment in which they could function with skill and independence for which they had been trained. No one impeded them; nothing was underfoot, except what they were used to and at home with. Their tools and equipment were the finest; their resources and Ihnitations were inventoried and known. Self-reliance returned. The camaraderie of the air-intangible, yet real to all who shared it-was theirs once more. Even passengers-the more sensitive ones-were attuned to a mental transformation and, once in the air, awareness of the change increased. At high altitude, looking down, concerns of the everyday world seemed less important. Some, more analytical than others, saw the new perspective as a shedding of the pettiness of earth. 297 Gwen Meighen, occupied with pre-takeoff rituals, bad no time for such analysis. While four of the five stewardesses busied themselves with housekeeping chores around the airplane, Gwen used the p.a. system to welcome passengers aboard. With her soft English voice, she did the best she could with the treacly, insincere paragraph from her stewardess manual, which the company insisted must be read on every flight. "On behalf of Captain Demerest and your crew our most sincere wish that your flight will be pleasant and relaxing … shortly we shall have the pleasure of serving … if there is anything we can do to make your flight more enjoyable . . ." Gwen wondered sometimes when airlines would realize that most passengers found such announcements, at the beginning and end of every flight, a boring intrusion. More essential were the announcements about emergency exits, oxygen masks, and ditching. With two of the other stewardesses demonstrating, she accomplished them quickly. They were still taxiing, Gwen observed-tonight more slowly than usual, taking longer to reach their takeoff runway. No doubt the reason was traffic and the storm. From outside she could hear an occasional splatter of wind-driven snow on windows and fuselage. There was one more announcement to be made-that which aircrews liked least. It was required before takeoffs at Lincoln International, New York, Boston, Cleveland, San Francisco, and other airports with resi– dential areas nearby. "Shortly after takeoff you will notice a marked decrease in engine noise, due to a reduction in power. This is perfectly normal and is done as a courtesy to those who live near the airport and in the direct flight path." The second statement was a lie. The power reduction was neither normal nor desirable. The truth was: it was a concession-some said a mere public relations gesture –involving risk to aircraft safety and human life. Pilots fought noise abatement power restrictions bitterly. Many pilots, at risk of their careers, refused to observe them.
Gwen had heard Vernon Demerest parody, in private, the announcement she had just made . . . "Ladies and gentlemen, at the most critical point of takeoff, when we need our best power and have a hundred other things to do in the cockpit, we are about to th,~ottle back drastically, then make a steep climbing turn at high gross weight and minimum speed. This is an exceedingly foolish maneuver for which a student pilot would be thrown out of flying school. However, we are doing it on orders from our airline employers and the Federal Aviation Administration because a few people down below, who built their houses long after the airport was established, are insisting that we tiptoe past. They don't give a damn about air safety, or that we are risking your lives and ours. So hang on tight, folks! Good luck to us all, and please start praying." Gwen smiled, remembering. There were so many things she appreciated about Vernon. He was energetically alive; he possessed strong feelings; when something interested him, he became actively involved. Even his failings-the abrasive manner, his conceit-were masculine and interesting. He could be tender, too-and was, in lovemaking, though responding eagerly to passion as Gwen had cause to know. Of all the men she knew, there was no one whose child she would bear more gladly than Vernon Dernerest's. In the thought there was a bitter sweetness. Replacing the p.a. microphone in its forward cabin niche, she was aware that the aircraft's taxiing pace had slowed; they must be near the takeoff point. These were the last few minutes she would have-for several hours to come-with any opportunity for private thoughts. After takeoff there would be no time for anything but work. Gwen had four stewardesses to supervise, as well as her own duties in the first class cabin. A good many overseas flights had male stewards directing cabin service, but Trans America encouraged senior women staffers like Gwen to take charge when they proved themselves capable. Now the aircraft had stopped. From a window Gwen could see the lights of another aircraft ahead, several others in line behind. The one ahead was turning onto a runway; Flight Two would be next. Gwen pulled down a folding seat and strapped herself in. The other girls had found seats elsewhere. She thought again: a bitter sweetness, and always the same single question recurring. Vernon's child, and her own-an abortion or not? … Yes or no? To be or not to be? … They were on the runway … Abortion or no abortion? … The engines' tempo was increasing. They were rolling already, wasting no time; in seconds, no more, they would be in the air … Yes or no? To permit to live or condemn to die? How, between love and reality, conscience and commousense, did anyone decide?As it happened, Gwen Meighen need not have made the announcement about power reduction. On the flight deck, taxiing out, Captain Harris told Demerest gruffly, "I plan to ignore noise abatement procedures tonight." Vernon Demerest, who had just copied their complicated route clearance, received by radio-a task normally performed by the absent First Officer-nodded. "Damn right! I would too." Most pilots would have let it go at that, but, characteristically, Demerest pulled the flight log toward him and made an entry in the "Remarks" column: "N.A.P. not observed. Reason: weather, safety." Later, there might be trouble about that log entry, but it was the kind of trouble Demerest enjoyed and would meet head on. The cockpit lights were dimmed. Pre-takeoff checks had been completed. They had been lucky in the temporary traffic lull; it had allowed them to reach their takeoff point, at the head of runway two five, quickly, and without the long ground hiatus which had plagued most other flights tonight. Already though, for others following, the delay was building up again. Behind Trans America Flight Two was a growing line of waiting aircraft and a procession of others taxiing out from the terminal. On radio, the ATC ground controller was issuing a swift stream of
instructions to flights of United Air Lines, Eastern, American, Air France, Flying Tiger, Lufthansa, Braniff, Contineiital, Lake Central, Delta, TWA, Ozark, Air Canada, Alitalia, and Pan Am, their assorted destinadons like~an index of world geography. Flight Two's additional fuel reserves, ordered by Anson Harris to allow for extra ground running time, had not, after all, been needed. But even with the heavy fuel load, they were still within safe takeoff limits, as Second Officer Jordan had just calculated, spreading out his graphs once more, as he would many times tonight and tomorrow before the flight ended. Both Demerest's and Harris's radios were now switched to runway control frequency. On runway two five, immediately ahead of Trans America, a British VC-10 of BOAC, received word to go. It moved forward, with lumbering slowness at first, then swiftly. Its company colors-blue, white, and gold –gleamed briefly in the reflection of other aircrafts' lights, then were gone in a flurry of whirling snow and black jet exhaust. Immediately the ground controller's voice intoned, "Trans America Two, taxi into position, runway two five, and hold; traffic landing on runway one seven, left." One seven, left, was a runway which directly bisected runway two five. There was an element of danger in using the two runways together, but tower controllers had become adept at spacing aircraft-landing and taking off-so that no time was wasted, but no two airplanes reached the intersection at the same moment. Pilots, uncomfortably aware of the danger of collision when they heard by radio that both runways were in use, obeyed controllers' orders implicitly. Anson Harris swiftly and expertly jockeyed FEght Two on to runway two five. Peering out, through snow flurries, Demerest could see the lights of an airplane, about to touch down on one seven. He thumbed his mike button. "Trans America Two, Roger. In position and holding. We see the landing traffic." Even before the landing aircraft had bisected their own runwav, the controller's voice returned. "Trans America Two, cleared for takeoff. Go, man, go!" The final three words were not in any air traffic control manual, but to controller and pilots they had identical meaning: Get the hell moving, now! There's another flight landing right after the last. Already a fresh set of lights-ominously close to the airfield-was approaching runway one seven. Anson Harris had not waited. His outspread fingers slid the four main throttles forward to their full extent. He ordered, "Trim the throttles," and briefly held his toe brakes on, allowing power to build, as Demerest set pressure ratios evenly for all four engines. The engines' sound deepened from a steady whine to a thunderous roar. Then Harris released the brakes and N-731-TA leaped forward down the runway. Vernon Dernerest reported to the tower, "Trans America Two on the roll," then applied forward pressure to the control yoke while Harris used nose wheel steering with his left hand, his right returning to the throttles. Speed built. Demerest called, "Eighty knots." Harris nodded, released nose wheel steering and took over the control yoke . . . Runway lights flashed by in swirling snow. Near crescendo, the big jet's power surged … At a hundred and thirty-two knots, as calculated earlier, Demerest called out "V-one"-notification to Harris that they had reached "decision speed" at which the takeoff could still be aborted and the aircraft stopped. Beyond V-one the takeoff must continue . . . Now they were past V-one … Still gathering speed, they hurtled through the runways' intersection, glimpsing to their right a flash of landing fights of the approaching plane; in mere seconds the other aircraft would cross where Flight Two had just passed. Another risk-skillfully calculated-had worked out; only pessimists believed that one day such a risk might not … As speed reached a hundred and fifty-four knots, Harris began rotation, easing the control column back. The nose wheel left the runway surface; they were in lift-off attitude, ready to
quit the ground. A moment later, with speed still increasimy, they were in the air. Harris said quietly, "Gear up." Demerest reached out, raising a lever on the central instrument panel. The sound of the retracting landing gear reverberated through the aircraft, then stopped with a thud as the doors to the wheel wells closed. They were going up fast-passing through four hundred feet. In a moment, the night and clouds would swallow them. "Flaps twenty." Still performing first officer duty, Demerest obediently moved the control pedestal flap selector from thirty degrees to twenty. There was a brief sensation of sinking as the wing flaps-which provided extra lift at takeoff –came partially upward. "Flaps up." Now the flaps were fully retracted. Demerest noted, for his report later, that at no point during takeoff could he have faulted Anson Harris's performance in the slightest degree. He had not expeeted to. Despite the earlier needling, Vernon Demerest was aware that Harris was a top-grade captain, as exacting in performance-his own and others-as Demere,,).t was himself. It was the reason Dernerest had known in advance that their flight to Rome tonight would be, for himself, an easy journey. Only seconds had passed since leaving the ground; now, still climbing steeply, they passed over the runway's end, the lights below already dimming through cloud and falling snow. Anson Harris had ceased lookingout and was flying on instruments alone. Second Officer Cy Jordan was reaching forward from his flight engineer's seat, adjusting the throttles to equalize the power of all four engines. Within the clouds there was a good deal of buffeting; at the outset of their journey, the passengers behind were getting a rough ride. Dernerest snapped the "No Smoking" light switch off; the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign would remain on until Flight Two reached more stable air. Later, either Harris or Demerest would make an announcement to the passengers; but not yet. At the moment, flying was more important. Demerest reported to departure control. "Turning portside one eight zero; leaving fifteen hundred feet." He saw Anson Harris smile at his use of the words "turning portside" instead of "turning left." The former was correct but unofficial. It was one of Demerest's own phrases; many veteran pilots had them-a minor rebellion against ATC officialese which nowadays all flying people were supposed to hew to. Controllers on the ground frequently learned to recognize individual pilots by such personal idioms. A moment later Flight Two received radio clearance to climb to twenty-five thousand feet. Demerest acknowledged while Anson Harris kept the aircraft climbing. Up there in a few minutes from now they would be in clear, calm air, the storm clouds far below, and high above, in sight, the stars.The "turning portside" phrase had been noticed on the ground-by Keith Bakersfeld. Keith had returned to radar watch more than an hour ago, after the time spent in the controllers' locker room, alone, remembering the past and reaffirming his intention of tonight. Several times since then Keith's hand had gone instinctively into his pocket, touching the key of his covertly rented room at the O'Hagan Inn. Otherwise, he had concentrated on the radarscope in front of him. He was now handling arrivals from the east and the continuing heavy traffic volume demanded intensive concentration. He was no): concerned directly with Flight Two; however, the departure controller was only a few feet away and in a brief interval between his own transmissions Keith heard the "turning portside" phrase and recog– nized it, along with his brother-in-law's voice. Until then, Keith had no idea that Vernon Demerest was flying tonight; there was no reason why he should. Keith and Vernon saw little of each other. Like Mel, Keith had never achieved any close rapport with his brother– in-law, though there bad been none of the friction between thern which marred relations between Dernerest and Mel. Shortly after Flight Two's departure, Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor, propelled his castor-equipped chair across to Keith. "Take live, buddyboy," Tevis said in his nasal Texan drawl. "I'll spell you. Your big brother dropped in." As he unplugged his headset and turned, Keith made out the fig-ure of Mel behind him in the shadows. He remembered his earlier hope that Mel would not come here tonight; at the time Keith feared that a meeting between the two of them might be more than he could handle emotionally, Now he found that he was glad Mel had come. They bad always been good friends as well as brothers, and it was right and proper there should be a leave-taking, though Mel would not know that it was that-at least, until he learned tomorrow. "Hi," Mel said. "I was passing by. How have things been?" Keith shrugged. "I guess, all right.»«Coffee?" Mel had picked up two take-out coffees from one of the airport restaurants on his way. They were in a paper bag; he offered one of the cups to Keith and took the other himself. "Thanks." Keith was grateful for the coffee as well as for the break. Now that he was away from the radarscope, if only briefly, he realized that his own mental tension had been accumulating again within the past hour. He observed, as if watching someone else, that his hand holding the coffee cup was not entirely steady. Mel glanced around the busy radar room. He was careful not to look too obviously at Keith whose appearance-tbe gaunt, strained face with deep hollows beneath the eyes-had shocked him. Keith's appearance had deteriorated over recent months; tonight, Mel thought, his brother looked worse than at any time before. His mind still on Keith, he nodded toward the profusion of radar equipment. "I wonder what the old man would have thought of all this." The "old man" was-had been-their father, Wally (Wild Blue) Bakersfeld, stick-and-goggles aviator, stunt flier, crop duster, night mail carrier, and parachute jumper-the last when he needed money badly enough. Wild Blue had been a contemporary of Lindbergh, a crony of Orville Wright, and had flown to the end of his life, which terminated abruptly in a filmed Hollywood stunt sequence-an airplane crash, intended to be simulated, but which turned out to be real. It happened when Mel and Keith were in their teens, but not before Wild Blue had inculcated in both boys an acceptance of aviation as their way of life, which persisted into adulthood. In Keith's case, Mel sometimes thought, the father had done his younger son a disservice. Keith shook his head without answering Mel's question, which didn't matter because it had been only rhetorical, Mel marking time while wondering how best to approach what was uppermost in his mind. He decided to do it directly-, Keeping his voice low, Mel said, "Keith, you're not well; you're looking damned awful. I know it, you know it; so why pretend? If you'll let me, I'd like to help. Can we talk-about whatever the trouble is? We've always been honest with each other.»«Yes," Keith acknowledged, "we've always been that." He sipped his coffee, not meeting Mel's eyes. The reference to their father, though casual, had moved Keith strangely. He remembered Wild Blue well; he had been a poor provider-the Bakersfeld family was perpetually short of money-but a genial man with his children, especially if the talk was about flying, as the two boys usually wanted it to be. Yet in the end it was not Wild Blue who had been a father figure to Keith, but Mel; Met Bakersfeld who possessed the sound sense and stability, as far back as Keith remembered, whicE their father lacked. It was Mel who always looked out for Keith, though never being ostentatious about it, or –werprotective as some older brothers were, robbing a y,)unger boy of dignity. Mel had a facility, even then, for doing things for people and making them feel good at the same time.
Mel had shared things with Keith, had been considerate and thoughtful, even in small ways. He still was. Bringing the coffee tonight was an example, Keith thought, then checked himself: Don't wax sentimental over a carton of coffee just because this is a last meeting. This time, Keith's aloneness, his anguish and guilt were beyond Mel's fixing. Even Mel could not bring back to life little Valerie Redfern and her parents. Mel motioned with his bead and they moved to the corridor outside the radar room. "Listen, old chum," Mel said. "You need a break from all this-a long one; perhaps more than a break. Maybe you need to get away for good." For the first time Keith smiled. "You've been listening to Natalie.»«Natalie's apt to talk a lot of sense." Whatever Keith's other problems might be, Mel reflected, he had been outstandingly fortunate in Natalie. The thought of his sister-in-law reminded Mel of his own wife, Cindy, who presumably was still on her way to the airport. Comparing your own marriage unfavorably with someone else's was disloyal, Mel supposed; at times, though, it was hard not to do it. He wondered if Keith really knew just how lucky-at least in that important area-he had been. "There's something else," Mel said. "I haven't brought it up before, but maybe now's the time. I don't think you've ever told me the whole of what happened at Leesburg-that day, the accident. Maybe you didn't tell anyone, because I've read all the testimony. Is there something else; that you've never told?" Keith hesitated only momentarily. "Yes.»«I figur,.-d there might be." Met chose his words carefully; he sensed that what was passing between them could be of critical importance. "But I also figured if you wantod me to know, you'd tell me; and if you didn't, wcll, it was none of my business. Sometimes, though, if you care about someone enough-say, like a brother-you ought to make it your business, whether they want you to butt in or not. So I'm making this mine now." He added softly, "You hear me?»«Yes," Keith said, "I hear you." He thought: He could stop this conversation, of course; perhaps he should stop it now, at once-since it was pointless-by excusing himself and going back to the radarscope. Mel would assume they could resume later, not knowing that for the two of them together, there would be no later. "That day at Leesburg," Mel insisted. "The part you've never told-it has something to do with the way you feel, the way you are, right now. Hasn't it?" Keith shook his head. "Leave it alone, Mel. Please!" "Then I'm right. There is a relationship, isn't there?" What was the point of denying the obvious? Keith nodded. "Yes.»«Won't you tell me? You have to tell someone; sooner or later you have to." Mel's voice was pleading, urgent. "You can't live with this thing-whatever it is –inside you forever. Who better to tell than me? I'd understand." You can't live with this . . . Who better to tell than me? It seemed to Keith that his brother's voice, even the sight of Mel, was coming to him through a tunnel, from the distant end, far away. At the farther end of the tunnel, too, were all the other people-Natalie, Brian, Theo, Perry Yount, Keith's friends-with whom he had lost communication long since. Now, of them all, Mel alone was reaching out, striving to bridge the gap between them … but the tunnel was long, their apartness –after all the length of time that Keith bad been alone –too great. And yet … As if sorreone else were speaking, Keith asked, "You mean tell you here? Now?" Mel urged, "Why not?" Why not indeed? Something within Keith stirred; a sense of waating to unburden, even though in the end it could chanve nothing … Or could it? Wasn't that what the Confes~ional was all about; a catharsis, an exorcism of sin through acknowledgment and contrition? The difference, of course, was that the Confessional gave forgiveness and expiation, and for Keith there could be
no expiation-ever. At least . . . he hadn't thought so. Now he wondered what Mel might say. Somewhere in Keith's mind a door, which had been closed, inched open. "I suppose there's no reason," he said slowly, "why I shouldn't tell you. It won't take long." Mel remained silent. Instinct told him that if wrong words were spoken they could shatter Keith's mood, could cut off the confidence which seemed about to be given, which Mel had waited so long and anxiously to hear. He reasoned: if he could finally learn what bedeviled Keith, between them they might come to grips with it. Judging by his brother's appearance tonight, it had better be soon. "You've read the testimony," Keith said. His voice was a monotone. "You just said so. You know most of what happened that day." Mel nodded. "What you don't know, or anybody knows except me; what didn't come out at the inquiry, what I've thought about over and over . . ." Keith hesitated; it seemed as if he might not continue. "For God's sake! For your own reason, for Natalie's sake, for mine-go on!" It was Keith's turn to nod. "I'm going to." He began describing the morning at Leesburg a year and a half before; the air traffic picture when he left for the washroom; supervisor Perry Yount; the trainee controller left in immediate charge. In a moment, Keith thought, he would admit how he had loitered; how he failed the others through indifference and negligence; how he returned to duty too late; how the accident, the multiple tragedy of the Redferns' deaths, had been solely his own doing; and how others were blamed. Now that at last he was doing what he had longed to, without knowing it, there was a sense of blessed relief. Words, like a cataract long damned, began tumbling out. Mel listened. Abrup0y, a door farther down the corridor opened. A voice-he towe)– watch chief's-called, "Oh, Mr. BakersfelV' His footstcps echoing along the corridor, the tower chief walke(; toward them. "Lieutenant Ordway has been trying to reach you, Mr. Bakersfeld; so has the Snow Desk. They both want you to call." He nodded. "Hi, Keith!" Mel wantod to cry out, to shout for silence or delay, plead to be alone with Keith for a few minutes more. But he knew it was no good. At the first sound of the tower chief's voice Keith had stopped in mid-sentence as if a switch were snapped to "off." Keith had not, after all, reached the point of describing his own guilt to Mel. As he responded automatically to the tower chief's greeting, he wondered: Why had be begun at all? What could he have hoped to gain? There could never be any gain, never any forgetting. No confession-to whomever made-would exorcise memory. Momentarily he had grasped at what he mistook for a faint flicker of hope, even perhaps reprieve. As it had to be, it proved illusory. Perhaps it was as well that the interruption occurred when it did. Once more, Keith realized, a mantle of loneliness, like an invisible thick curtain, surrounded him. Inside the curtain he was alone with his thoughts, and inside his thoughts was a private torture chamber where no one, not even a brother, could reach through. From that torture chamber . . . waiting, always waiting . . . there could be only one relief. It was the way be bad already chosen, and would carry through. "I guess they could use you back inside, Keith," the tower watch chief said. It was the gentlest kind of chiding. Keith had already had one work-break tonight; another inevitably threw a heavier load on other people. It was also a reminder to Mel, perhaps unintended, that as air-port general manager his writ did not run here. Keith mumbled something and gave a distant nod. With a serise of helplessness, Mel watched his brother return to the radar room. He had heard enough to know that it was desperately important he should hear more. He wondc~red when that would be, and how. A few minutes ago he had broken through Keith's reserve, his
secrecy. Would it happen again? With despair, Mel doubted it. For sure, there would be no more confidences from Keith tonight. "I'm sony, Mr. Bakersfeld." As if belatedly guessing Mel's thoughts, the tower chief spread his hands. "You try to do the best for everybody. It isn't always easy.»«I know." Met felt like sighing, but restrained himself. When something like this happened, you could only hope for the right occasion to occur again; meanwhile you got on with other things you had to do. "Tell me, please," Mel said, "what were those mes sages again' ' "' The tower chief repeated them. Instead of telephoning the Snow Control Desk, Mel walked down one floor of the control tower and went in. Danny Farrow was still presiding over the busy snow clearance command console. There was a query about priorities in clearing the aircraft parking areas of competing airlines, which Mel settled, then checked on the situation concerning the blocked runway, three zero. There was no change, except that Joe Patroni was now on the airfield and had taken charge of attempts to move the mired A6reoMexican 707, which was still preventing the runway being used. A few minutes earlier, Patroni had reported by radio that he expected to make a new attempt to move the aircraft within an hour. Knowing Joe Patroni's reputation as a top-notch troubleshooter, Mel decided there was nothing to be gained by demanding a more detailed report. At the Snow Desk Mel remembered the message to call Police Lieutenant Ordway. Assuming that the lieutenant was still in the terminal, Mel had him paged and, a few moments later, Ordway came on the line. Mel expected the lieutenant's call to be about the anti-noise delegation of Meadowood residents. It wasn't. "The Meadowood people are starting to come in, but they haven't been a problem and they haven't asked for you yet," Ned Ordway said when Mel raised the question. "I'll let you know when they do." What he had called about, the policeman reported, was a woman who had been picked up by one of his men. She was crying, and apparently wandering aimlessly in the main terminal. "We couldn't get any sense out of her, but she wasn't doing anything wrong so I didn't want to take her to the station house. She seemed upset enough without that.»«What did you do?" Ordway said apologetically, "There aren't many quiet places around here tonight, so I put her in the anteroom outside your office. I thought I'd let you know in case you got back and wondered.»«That's all right. Is she alone?" "One of my men was with her, though he may have left by now. But she's harmless; I'm sure of that. We'll check on her again soon.»«I'll be back at my office in a few minutes," Mel said. "I'll see if I can do any good myself." He wondered if he would have more success talking with the unknown woman than he had had with Keith; he doubted if he could do worse. The thought of Keith, who seemed close to breaking point, still troubled Mel deeply. As an afterthought, he asked, "Did you find out the woman's name?" "Yes, we got that much. It's a Spanish-sounding name. Just a minute; I have it written down." There was a pause, then Lieutenant Ordway said, "Her name is Guerrero. Mrs. Inez Guerrero."Tanya Livingston said incredulously, "You mean Mrs. Quonsc-tt's aboard Flight Two?" "I'm afraid there's no doubt of it, Mrs. Livingston. There was a little old lady, exactly the way you've described her." The gate agent who had supervised boarding of The Golden Argosy was in the D.T.M.'s office with Tanya and young Peter Coakley, the latter still mortified at having been bamboozled by Mrs. Ada Quonsett while she was in his charge. The gate agent had come to the office a few minutes ago in response to Coakley's telephoned warning, to all
Trans America gate positions, about the elusive Mrs. Quonsett. "It just didn't occur to me there was anything wrong," the gate agent said. "We let other visitors aboard tonight; they came off." He added defensively, "Anyway, I'd been under pressure all evening. We were short staffed, and apart from the time you were there helping, I was doing the work of two people. You know that.»«Yes," Tanya said, "I know." She had no intention of passing out blame. If anyone was responsible for what had happened, it was Tanya herself. "It was just after you left, Mrs. Livingston. The old lady said something about her son, I think it was, leaving his wallet. She even showed it to me. It bad money in it, she said, which was why I didn't take it.»«She'd already figured that. It's one of her regular gags.11 "I didn't know it, so I let her go aboard. From then until a few minutes ago when I got the phone call, I never gave her another thought.»«She fools you," Peter Coakley said. He gave a sideways glance at Tanya. "She sure fooled me." The agent shook his head. "If I didn't have to believe it, I wouldn't, even now. But she's aboard, all right." He described the discrepancy between the tourist section head count and the ticket tally, then afterward, the ramp supervisor's decision to let the aircraft go, rather than incur further delay. Tanya said quickly, "I suppose there's no doubt Flight Two's already taken off.»«Yes, they have. I checked on my way here. Even if they hadn't, I doubt they'd bring the aircraft back in, especially tonight.»«No they wouldn't." Nor was there the slightest chance, Tanya knew, of The Golden ^qosy changing course and returning for a landing, merely because of Ada Quonsett. The time and cost to disembark one stowaway would run to thousands of dollars-far more than to take Mrs. Quonsett to Rome and bring her back. "Is there a refueling stop?" Sometimes, Tanya knew, Europe-bound flights made non-scheduled stops for fuel at Montreal or Newfoundland. If so, there would be a chance to pull Mrs. Quonsett off, robbing her of the satisfaction of getting all the way to Italy. "I asked Operations about that," the agent answered. "The flight plan shows they're going right through. No stops." Tanya exclaimed, "Damn that old woman!" So Ada Quonsett was going to get her ride to Italy and back, with probably a night's lodging in between, and with meals supplied-all at airline expense, Tanya thought angrily: she had underestimated the old lady's determination not to be sent back to the West Coast; she had erred also in assuming that Mrs. Quonsett would head only for New York. Barely fifteen minutes earlier Tanya had thought of the developing contest between herself and Ada Quonsett as a battle of wits. If it was, without doubt the little old lady from San Diego had won. With uncharacteristic savageness, Tanya wished that the airline would make an exception and prosecute Mrs. Quonsett. But she knew they wouldn't. Young Peter Coakley started to say something. Tanya snapped, "Oh, shut up!" The District Transportation Manager returned to his office a few minutes after Coakley and the gate agent left. The D.T.M., Bert Weatherby, was a hard-working, bard-driving executive in his late forties, who had come up the hard way, beginning as a ramp baggage handler. Normal.ly considerate, and with a sense of humor, tonight he was tired and testy from three days of continuous strain. He listened impatiently to Tanya's report in which she accepted the main responsibility herself, mentioning Peter Coakley only incidentally. Running a hand through his sparse graying bair, the D.T.M. observed, "I like to check that there's still some left up there, It's things like this that are making the rest of it fall out." He considered, then rasped, "You got us into this mess; you'd better do the salvaging. Talk to Flight Dispatch; ask them to call the captain of Flight
Two on company radio and fiR him in on what happened. I don't know what he can do. Personally, I'd like to throw the old hag out at thirty thousand feet, but that'll be up to him. By the way, who is the captain?" "Captain Demerest." The D.T.M. groaned. "It would be. He'll probably think it's all a great joke because management boobed. Anyway, advise him the old biddy's to be detained on board after landing, and is not to be allowed off without escort. If tMe Italian authorities want to jail her, so much the better. Then get a signal off to our station manager in Rome. When they arrive it'll be his baby, and I hope he's got more competent people around him than I have.»«Yes, sir," Tanya said. She started to tell the D.T.M. of the other matter concerning Might Two-the suspicious-looking man with an attach6 case whom Customs Inspector Standish had seen going aboard. Before she could finish, the D.T.M. cut her off. "Forget it! What do the Customs people want us to do-their job? As long as the airline's not involved, I don't give a damn what the guy's carrying. If Customs here want to know what's in his case, let them ask Italian Customs to check, not us. I'll be damned if I'll interrogate, and maybe offend, a fare-paying passenger for something that's none of our business." Tanya hesitated. Something about the man with the attach6 case-even though she hadn't actually seen him –bothered her. There were instances she had heard of where … Of course, the idea was absurd … "I was wondering," she said. "He might not be smuggling at all." The D.T.M. snapped, "I said forget it." Tanya left. Back at her desk, she began writing the message to Captain Dernerest of Hight Two concerning Mrs. Ada Quonsett 2In a taxi en route to the airport from downtown, Cindy Bakersfeld leaned back against the rear seat and closed her eyes. She was neither aware, nor cared, that outside it was still snowing, nor that the taxi was moving slowly in heavy traffic. She was in no hurry. A wave of physical pleasure and contentment (Was the right word euphoria? Cindy wondered) swept over her. The cause was Derek Eden. Derek Eden, who had been at the Archidona Relief Fund cocktail party (Cindy still didn't know which Archidona); who had brought her a triple-strength Bourbon, which she hadn't drunk, then had propositioned her in the most unimaginative way. Derek Eden, until today only a slightly known Sun-Times reporter with a second-grade by-line; Derek Eden with the dissolute face, the casual air, the nondescript impressed clothes; Derek Eden and his beat-up filthy-inside-andout Chevrolet; Derek Eden, who had caught Cindy in a barriers-down moment, when she needed a man, any man, and she hadn't hoped for much; Derek Eden who had proved to be the finest and most exciting lover she had ever known. Never, never before had Cindy experienced anyone like him. Oh, God!, she thought; if ever there was sensual, physical perfection, she attained it tonight. More to the point; now that she had known Derek Eden … dear Derek … she wanted him again-often. Fortunately, it was unmistakable that he now felt the same way about her. Still leaning back in the rear of the taxi, she relived mentally the past two hours. They had driven, in the awful old Chevrolet, from the Lake Michigan Inn to a smallish hotel near the Merchandise Mart. A doorman accepted the car disdainfully –Derek Eden didn't seem to notice-and inside, in the
lobby, the night manager was waiting. Cindy gathered that one of the phone calls which her escort had made was to hcre. There was no formality of checking in, and the night manager showed them directly to a room on the eleventh floor. After leaving the key, and with a quick "goodnight," he left. The room was so-so; old fashioned, spartan, and with cigarette bums on the furniture, but clean. It had a double bed. Beside the bed, on a table, was an unopened bottle of Scotch, some mixes and ice. A card on the liquor tray read, "With the manager's compliments"; Derek Eden inspected the card, then put it in his pocket. When Cindy inquired, later on, Derek explained, "Sometimes a hotel will oblige the press. When they do, we don't make any promises; the paper wouldn't go for it. But maybe sometimes a reporter or a deskman will put the hotel's name in a story if it's an advantage; or if the story's a bad one-like a death; hotels hate thatwe might leave it out. As I say, no promises. You do the best you can." They had a drink, and chatted, then another, and during the second drink he began to kiss her. It was soon after that she became aware of the gentleness of his hands, which he passed through her hair quite a lot to begin with, in a way which she could feel through her entire body; then the hands began exploring slowly, oh, so slowly … and it was also then that Cindy began to realize this might be something special. While he was undressing her, demonstrating a finesse which he had lacked earlier, he whispered, "Don't let's hurry, Cindy-either of us." But soon after, when they were in bed, and wonderfully warm, as Derek Eden promised in the car they would be, she had wanted to hurry, and cried out, "Yes, yes! … Oh, please! I can't wait!" But he insisted gently, "Yes, you can. You must." And she obeyed him, being utterly, deliciously in his control, while he led her, as if by the hand like a child, close to the brink, then back a pace or two while they waited with a feeling like floating in air; then near once more, and back, and the same again and again, the bliss of it all near-unendurable; and finally when neither of them could wait longer, there was a shared crescendo like a hymn of heaven and a thousand sweet symphonies; and if Cindy had been able to choose a moment for dying, because nothing afterward could ever be that moment's equal, she would have chosen then. Later, Cindy decided that one of the things she liked about Derek Eden was his total lack of humbug. Ten minutes after their supreme moment, at a point where Cindy's normal breathing was returning and her heart regaining its regular beat, Derek Eden propped himself on an elbow and lighted cigarettes for them both. "We were great, Cindy." He smiled. "Let's play a return match soon, and lots of others after that." It was, Cindy realized, an admission of two things: that what they had experienced was solely physical, a sensual ad– venture, and neither should pretend that it was more; yet together they had attained that rare Nirvana, an absolute sexual compatibility. Now, what they had available, whenever needed, was a private physical paradise, to be nurtured and increasingly explored. The arrangement suited Cindy. She doubted if she and Derek Eden would have much in common outside a bedroom, and he was certainly no prize to be exhibited around the social circuit. Without even thinking about it, Cindy knew she would have more to lose than gain by being seen publicly in Derek's company. Besides, he had already intimated that his own marriage was solid, though Cindy guessed he wasn't getting as much sex at home as he needed, a condition with which she sympathized, being in the same situation herself. Yes, Derek Eden was someone to be treasured-but not to become involved with emotionally. She would treasure him. Cindy resolved not to be demanding, nor let their love-making become too frequent. A single ses– sion like tonight's would last Cindy a long time, and could be relived just by thinking about it. Play a little hard-to-get, she told herself; see to it that Derek Eden went on wanting her as much as she wanted him. That way, the whole thing could last for years. Cindy's discovery of Derek had also, in a strange
way, provided her with a freedom she had not possessed before. Now that she had better-than-average sex available as it were, on a separate shelf, she could view the choice between Mel and Lionel Urquhart more objectively. Her marriage to Mel had, in some ways, already terminated. Mentally and sexually they were estranged; their slightest disagreement resulted in bitter quarreling. All that Mel appeared to think about nowadays was his damned airport. Each day, it seemed, thrust Mel and Cindy farther apart. Lionel, who was satisfactory in all respects except in bed, wanted divorces all around so that he could marry Cindy. Mel detested Cindy's social ambitions. Not only would he do nothing to advance them; he impeded them. Lionel, on the other hand, was well established in Illinois society, saw nothing unusual in Cindy's social aims and would, and could, help her fulfill them. Until now, Cindy's choice had been complicated by the remembrance of her fifteen years of marriage to Mel and the good times together, mental and physical, they had once enjoyed. She had hoped vaguely that the past –including the satisfactions of sex-might somehow be rekindled. It was, she admitted to herself, a delusive hope. Lionel, as a sexual partner, had little or nothing to offer. Neither-at least for Cindy, any more-had Mel. But if sex were eliminated-an elimination which Derek Eden, like a secretly stabled stallion, had now made possible-Lionel, as a competitor to Mel, came out far ahead. In the taxi, Cindy opened her eyes and mused. She wouldn't make any firm decision until she had talked with Mel. Cindy didn't like decisions, anyway, and invariably put them off until they could be delayed no longer. Also, there were still imponderables in– volved: the children; memories of the years with Mel, which hadn't all been bad; and when you once cared deeply for someone, you never shook it off entirely. But she was glad she had decided, after all, to come out here tonight. For the first time since leaving downtown Cindy leaned forward, peering out into the darkness to see if she could determine where they were. She couldn't. Through misted windows she could see snow and many other cars, all moving slowly. She guessed they were on the Kennedy Expressway, but that was all. She was aware of the cab driver's eyes watching her in his rear-view mirror. Cindy had no idea what kind of man the driver was; she hadn't taken notice when she got into the cab back at the hotel, which she and Derek left separately since they decided they might as well start being discreet immediately. Anyway, tonight all faces and bodies merged into the face and body of Derek Eden. "That's Portage Park over there, madam," the driver said. "We're getting close to the airport. Won't be long.»«Thank you.»«Lotsa traffic going out there besides us. Guess those airport people must have had their problems, what with the big storm and all." Who the hell cares?, Cindy thought. And didn't anyone ever think or talk of anything besides that cruddy airport? But she kept quiet. At the main terminal entrance Cindy paid off the cab and hurried inside to avoid wet snow which gusted under canopies and swirled along sidewalks. She threaded the crowds in the main concourse, moving around one sizable group which seemed to intend some kind of demonstration because several people were helping assemble a portable public address system. A Negro police lieutenant, whom Cindy had met several times with Mel, was talking to two or three men from the group who appeared to be leaders. The policeman was shaking his head vigorously. Not really curiousnothing about this place really interested her-Cindy moved on, heading for the airport administrative offices on the mezzanine. Lights were on in all the offices, though most were unoccupied and there was none of the clatter of type– writers or hum of conversation, as during daytime working hours. At least some people, Cindy thought, had sense enough to go home at night. The only person in sight was a middle-aged woman, in drab clothes, in the anteroom to Mel's office. She was seated on a settee from where she seemed to be looking vacantly into space, and took no notice as Cindy came in. The woman's eyes were red as if she had been crying. Judging by her clothes and shoes, which were sodden, she had been outside in the storm. Cindy gave the other woman only a mildly curious glance before going into Mel's office. The office was empty, and Cindy sat down in a chair to wait. After a few moments she closed her eyes and resumed her pleasant thoughts about Derek Eden. Mel hurried in-he was limping more than usual, Cindy noticed-about ten minutes later. "Oh!" He appeared surprised when he saw Cindy, and went back to close the door. "I really didn't think you'd come.»«I suppose you'd have preferred me not to." Mel shook his head. "I still don't think there's anything to be gained by it-at least, not for what you seem to have in mind." He looked at his wife appraisingly, wondering what her real purpose was in coming here tonight. He had learned long ago that Cindy's motives were usually complicated, and frequently quite different from what they appeared to be. He had to admit, though, that she looked her best tonight; positively glamorous, with a kind of radiance about her. Unfortunately, the glamour no longer affected him personally. "Suppose you tell. me," Cindy said, "what you think I have in mind." He shrUgged. "I got the impression that what you wanted was a fight. It occurred to me that we had enough of them at home without arranging another here.»«Perhaps we'll have to arrange something here; since you're hardly ever home any more.»«I might be home, if the atmosphere were more congenial." They had been talking for just a few seconds, Cindy realized, and already were sniping at each other. It seemed impossible nowadays for the two of them to hold a conversation without that happening. Just the same, she could not resist answering, "Oh, really! That isn't usually the reason you give for not being at home. You're always claiming how all-fired important it is for you to be here at the airport-if necessary, twenty-four hours a day. So many important things-or so you say-are always happening." Mel said curtly, "Tonight they are.»«But not other times?" "If you're asking whether I've sometimes stayed here in preference to coming home, the answer's yes.»«At least this is the first time you've been honest about it.»«Even when I do come home, you insist on dragging me to some stupid stuffed-shirt affair like tonight's." His wife said angrily, "So you never did intend to come tonight!" "Yes, I did. I told you so. But…»«But nothing!" Cindy could feel the short fuse of her temper burning. "You counted on something turning up to prevent you, the way it always does. So that you could weasel out and have an alibi; so you could convince yourself, even if you don't convince me, because I think you're a liar and a fake.»«Take it easy, Cindy.»«I won't take it easy." They glared at each other. What happened to them, Met wondered, that they had come to this?-squabbling like ill-bred children; dealing in pettiness; exchanging vicious gibes; and in all of it, he himself no better than Cindy. Something happened when they quarreled which demeaned them both. He wondered if it was always this way when things were sour with two people who had lived together for a long time. Was it because they knew, and therefore could probe painfully, each other's weaknesses? He had once
heard someone say that a disintegrating marriage brought out the worst in both partners. In his own and Cindy's case it was certainly true. He tried to speak more reasonably. "I don't think I'm a liar, or a fake. But maybe you have a point about my counting on something turning up, enough to keep me away from the social things, which you know I hate. I just hadn't thought of it that way." When Cindy remained silent, he went on, "You can believe it or not, but I did intend to meet you tonight downtown-at least I think so. Maybe I didn't really, the way you said; I don't know. But I do know that I didn't arrange the storm, and, since it started, a lot of things have happened that-for real this time-have kept me here." He nodded toward the outer office. "One of them is that woman sitting out there. I told Lieu– tenant Ordway I'd talk to her. She seems to be in some sort of trouble.»«Your wife's in trouble," Cindy said. "The woman out there can wait." He nodded. "All right.»«We've had it," Cindy said. "You and me. Haven't we?" He waited before answering, not wanting to be hasty, yet reali7ing that now this had come up, it would be foolish to avoid the truth. "Yes," he said finally. "I'm afraid we have." Cindy shot back, "If only you'd change! If you'd see things my way. It's always been what you want to do, or don't. If you'd only do what I want. . .»«Like being out six nights a week in black tie, and white tie on the seventh?" "Well, why not?" Emotionally, imperiously, Cindy faced him. He bad always admired her in that kind of spunky mood, even when it was directed at himself. Even now … "I guess I could say the same kind of thing," he told her. "About changing; all that. The trouble is, people don't change-not in what they are basically; they adapt. It's that-two people adapting to each other– that marriage is supposed to be about.»«The adapting doesn't have to be one-sided.»«It hasn't been with us," Mel argued, "no matter what you think. I've tried to adapt; I guess you have, too. I don't know who's made the most effort; obviously I think it's me, and you think it's you. The main thing is: though we've given it plenty of time to work, it hasn't." Cindy said slowly, "I suppose you're right. About the last bit, anyway. I've been thinking the same way too." She stopped, then added, "I think I want a divorce.»«You'd better be quite sure. It's fairly important." Even now, Mel thought, Cindy was hedging about a decision, waiting for him to help her with it. If what they bad been saying were less serious, he would have smiled. "I'm sure," Cindy said. She repeated, with more conviction. "Yes, I'm sure." Mel said quietly, "Then I think it's the right decision for us both." For a second Cindy hesitated. "You're sure, too?" "Yes," he said. "I'm sure." The lack of argument, the quickness of the exchange, seemed to bother Cindy. She asked, "Then we've made a decision?" "Yes .11They still faced each other, but their –anger was gone. "Oh hell!" Mel moved, as if to take a pace forward. "I'm sorry, Cindy.»«I'm sorry, too." Cindy stayed where she was. Her voice was more assured. "But it's the most sensible thing, isn't it?" He nodded. "Yes. I guess it is." It was over now. Both knew it. Only details remained to be attended to. Cindy was already making plans. "I shall have custody of Roberta and Libby, of course, though you'll always be able to see them. I'll never be difficult about that.»«I didn't expect you would be." Yes, Mel mused, it was logical that the girls would go
with their mother. He would miss them both, Libby especially. No outside meetings, however frequent, could ever be a substitute for living in the same house day by day. He remembered his talks with his younger daughter on the telephone tonight; what was it Libby had wanted the first time? A map of February. Well, he had one now; it showed some unexpected detours. "And I'll have to get a lawyer," Cindy said. "I'll let you know who it is." He nodded, wondering if all marriages went on to terminate so matter-of-factly once the decision to end them had been made. He supposed it was the civilized way of doing things. At any rate, Cindy seemed to have regained her composure with remarkable speed. Seated in the chair she had been occupying earlier, she was inspecting her face in a compact, repairing her make-up. He even had the impression that her thoughts had moved away from here; at the comers of her mouth there was the hint of a smile. In situations like this, Mel thought, women were supposed to be more emotional than men, but Cindy didn't show any signs of it, yet he himself was close to tears. He was aware of sounds-voices and people moving –in the office outside. There was a knock. Mel called, "Come in." It was Lieutenant Ordway. He entered, closing the door behind him. When he saw Cindy, he said, "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Bakersfeld." Cindy glanced up, then away, without answering. Ordway, sensitive to atmosphere, stood hesitantly. "Perhaps I should come back." Mel asked, "What is it, Ned?" "It's the anti-noise demonstration; those Meadowood people. There are a couple of hundred in the main concourse; more coming in. They all wanted to see you, but I've talked them into sending a delegation, the way you suggested. They selected half a dozen, and there are three newspaper reporters; I said the reporters could come too." The policeman nodded toward the anteroom. "They're all waiting outside." He would have to see the delegation, Mel knew. He had never felt less like talking to anyone. "Cindy," he pleaded, "this won't take long. Will you wait?" When she didn't answer, he added, "Please!" She continued to ignore them both. "Look," Ordway said, "if this is a bad time, I'll tell these people they'll have to come back some other day." Mel shook his head. The commitment had been made; it was his own suggestion. "You'd better bring them in." As the policeman turned away, Mel added, ,, Oh, I haven't talked to that woman … I've f orgotten her name.»«Guerrero," Ordway said. "And you don't have to. She looked as if she was leaving when I came in." A few moments later the half dozen people from Meadowood-four men and two women-began filing in. The press trio followed. One of the reporters was from the Tribune-an alert, youngish man named Tomlinson who usually covered the airport and general aviation beat for his paper; Mel knew him well and respected his accuracy and fairness. Tomlinson's by-line also appeared occasionally in national magazines, The other two reporters were also known slightly to Melone a young man from the Sun-Times, the other an older woman from a local weekly. Through the open door-way, Mel could see Lieutenant Ordway talking to the woman outside, Mrs. Guerrero, who was standing, fastening her coat. Cindy remained where she was. "Good evening." Mel introduced himself, then motioned to settees and chairs around his office. "Please sit down.»«Okay, we will," one of the men in the delegation said. He was expensively well-dressed, with precisely combed, graystreaked hair, and seemed to be the group's leader. "But I'll tell you we're not here to get cozy. We've some plain, blunt things to say and we expect the same kind of answers, not a lot of doubletalk.»«I'll try not to give you that. Will you teU me who you are?"
"My name is Elliott Freemantle. I'm a lawyer. I represent these people, and all the others down below.»«All right, Mr. Freemantle," Mel said. "Why don't you begin?" The door to the anteroom was still open. The woman who had been outside, Mel noticed, had gone. Now, i,led Ordway came in, closing the office door. 3Trans Amcrica Airlines Flight Two was twenty minutes out of Lincoln International, and in a steady climb which would continue until reaching thirty-three thousand feet near Detroit, in eleven more minutes. Already the flight was on its airway and great circle course for Rome. For the past several minutes the aircraft had been in smooth air, the storm clouds and accompanying turbulence now far below. A three-quarter moon hung above and ahead like a lopsided lantern; all around, the stars were sharp and clear. On the flight deck, initial pressures were over. Captain Harris had made a progress announcement to the passengers over the p.a. system. The three pilots were settling down to routines of their long flight. Under the second officer's table, behind Captain Harris and Demerest, a chime sounded loudly. At the same instant, on a radio panel forward of the throttles, an amber light winked on. Both chime and light indicated a radio call on Selcal radio system through which most airliners could be called individually, as if by private telephone. Each aircraft, of Trans America and other major airlines, had its own separate call code, transmitted and received automatically. The signals which had just been actuated for aircraft N-731-TA would be seen or heard on no other flight. Anson Harris switched from the radio to which be bad been listening on air route control frequency, and acknowledged, "This is Trans America Two.»«Flight Two, this is Trans America dispatcher, Cleveland. I have a message for the captain from D.T.M., LIA. Advise when ready to copy." Vernon Demerest, Harris observed, had also changed radio frequencies. Now Demerest pulled a notepad toward him and nodded. Harris instructed, "We're ready, Cleveland. Go ahead." The message was that which Tanya Livingston had written concerning Flight Two's stowaway, Mrs. Ada Quonsett. As it progressed, with the description of the little old lady from San Diego, both captains began smihng. The message ended by asking confirmation that Mrs. Quonsett was aboard. "We will check and advise," Harris acknowledged. When the transmission ended, he clicked the radio controls back to air route control frequency. Vernon Demerest, and Second Officer Jordan who had heard the message from an overhead speaker near his seat, were laughing aloud. The second officer declared, "I don't believe it!" "I believe it." Demerest chuckled. "All those boobs on the ground, and some ancient old duck fooled them all!" He pushed the call button for the forward galley phone. "Hey!" he said, when one of the stewardesses answered. "Tell Gwen we want her in the office." He was still chuckling when the flight deck door opened. Gwen Meighen came in. Demerest read Gwen the Selcal message with Mrs. Quonsett's description. "Have you seen her?" Gwen shook her head. "I've hardly been back in tourist yet.»«Go back," Dernerest told her, "and see if the old woman's there. She shouldn't be hard to spot.»«If she is, what do you want me to do?" "Nothing. Just come back and report." Gwen was gone only a few minutes. When she returned, she was laughing Re the others.
Dernerest swung around in his seat. "Is she there?" Gwen nodded. "Yes, in seat fourteen-B. She's just the way the message said, only more so." The second officer asked, "How old?" "At least seventy-five; probably nearer eighty. And she looks like something out of Dickens." Over his shoulder, Anson Harris said, "More like Arsenic and Old Lace.»«Is she really a stowaway, Captain?" Harris shrugged. "On the ground they say so. And I guess it explains why your head count was wrong.»«We can easily find ou ' t for sure," Gwen volunteered. "All I have to do is go back again and ask to see her ticket counterfoil.»«No," Vernon Demerest said. "Let's not do that." As best they could in the darkened cockpit, the others regarded him curiously. After a second or so, Harris returned his eyes to the flight instruments; Second Officer Jordan swung back to his fuel charts. "Hold on," Demerest told Gwen. While she waited, he made a check point report on company radio. "All we were told to do," Dernerest said when he had finished the report, "was to see if the old lady's aboard. Okay, she is; and that's what I'll tell Flight Dispatch. I guess they'll have someone waiting for her at Rome; we can't do anything about that, even if we wanted to. But if the old girl's made it this far, and since we're not turning back, why make her next eight hours miserable? So leave her alone. Maybe, just before we get to Rome, we'll let her know she's been found out; then it won't be a whole big shock. But for the time being, let her enjoy her flight. Give Grandma some dinner, and she can watch the movie in peace.»«You know," Gwen said; she was watching him thoughtfully. "There are times when I quite likeyou.11 As Gwen left the flight deck, Demerest-still chuckling-changed radio channels and reported back himself to the Cleveland dispatcher. Anson Harris, who had his pipe alight, looked up from adjusting the auto-pilot and said drily, "I didn't think you were much of a one for the old ladies." He emphasized the "old." Demerest grinned, "I prefer younger ones.»«So I'd lieard." The stowaway report, and his reply, had put Demerest in a thoroughly good humor. More relaxed than earlier, he added, "Opportunities change. Pretty soon you and I will have to settle for the not-so-young ones.»«I already have." Harris puffed at his pipe. "For quite some time." Both pilots had one earpiece of their radio headsets pushed upward. They could converse normally, yet hear radio calls if any came in. The noise level of the flight deck-per,~istent but not overwhelming-was sufficient to give the two of them privacy. "You've always played it straight down the line, haven't you?" Demerest said. "With your wife, I mean. No mucking around; on layovers I've seen you reading books." This time Harris grinned. "Sometimes 1 go to a movie.»«Any special reason?" "My wife was a stewardess-on DC-4s; that was bow we met. She knew what went on: the sleeping around, pregnancies, abortions, all that stuff. Later, she got to be a super-visor and had to deal with a lot of it in her job. Anyway, when we were married I made her a promise –the obvious one. I've always kept it.»«I guess all those kids you had helped.»«Maybe." Harris made another minute adjustment to the autopilot. As they talked, the eyes of both pilots, out of training and habit, swept the illuminated banks of instruments in front of them, as well as those to each side and above. An incorrect instrument reading would show at once if anything in the aircraft was malfunctioning. Nothing was. Demerest said, "How many children is it? Six?" "Seven." Harris smiled. "Four we planned, three we didn't. But it all worked out."
"The ones you didn't plan-did you ever consider doing anything about them? Before they were born." Harris glanced sharply sideways. "Abortion?" Vernon Demerest had asked the question on impulse. Now he wondered why. Obviously, his two conversations earlier with Gwen had begun the train of thought about children generally. But it was uncharacteristic of him to be doing so much thinking about somethinglike an abortion for Gwen-which was essentially simple and straightforward. Just the same, be was curious about Harris's reaction. "Yes," Dernerest said. "That's what I meant." Anson Harris said curtly, "The answer's no." Less sharply, he added, "It happens to be something I have strong views about.»«Because of religion?" Harris shook his head negatively. "I'm an agnostic.»«What kind of views, then?" "You sure you want to hear?" "It's a long night," Dernerest said. "Why not?" On radio they listened to an exchange between air route control and a TWA flight, Paris-bound, which had taken off shortly after Trans America Flight Two. The TWA jet was ten miles behind, and several thousand feet lower. As Flight two continued to climb, so would TWA. Most alert pilots, as a result of listening to other aircraft transmissions, maintained a partial picture of nearby tralfic in their minds. Demerest and Harris both added this latest item to others already noted. When the ground-to-air exchange ended, Dernerest urged Anson Harris, "Go ahead." Harris checked their course and altitude, then began rcfffling his pipe. "I've studied a lot of history. I got interested in college and followed through after. Maybe you've done the same.»«No," Demerest said. "Never more than I had to.»«Well, if you go through it all-history, that is-one thing stands out. Every bit of human progress has happened for a single, simple reason: the elevation of the status of the individual. Each time civilization has stumbled into another age that's a little better, a bit more enlightened, than the one before it, it's because people cared more about other people and respected them as individuals. When they haven't cared, those have been the times of slipping backward. Even a short world history-if you read one-will prove it's true.»«I'll take your word for it.»«You don't have to. There are plenty of examples. We abolished slavery because we respected individual human life. For the same reason we stopped hanging children, and around the same time we invented habeas corpus, and now we've created justice for all, or the closest we can come to it. More recently, most people who think and reason are against capital punishment, not so much because of those to be executed, but for what taking a human life-any human life-does to society, which is all of us." Harris stopped. Straining forward against his seat harness, he looked outward from the darkened cockpit to the night surrounding them. In bright moonlight he could see a swirl of darkened cloudtops far below. With a forecast of unbroken cloud along the whole of their route until mid-Atlantic, there would be no glimpses tonight of lights on the ground. Several thousand feet above, the lights of another aircraft, traveling in an opposite direction, flashed by and were gone. From his seat behind the other two pilots, Second Officer Cy Jordan reached forward, adjusting the throttle settings to compensate for Flight Two's increased altitude. Demerest waited until Jordan had finished, then protested to Anson Harris, "Capital punishment is a long way from abortion.»«Not really," Harris said. "Not when you think about it. It all relates to respect for individual human life; to the way civilization's come, the way it's going. The strange thing is, you hear people argue for abolition of capital punishment, then for legalized abortion in the same breath. What they don't see is the anomaly of
raising the value of human life on one hand, and lowering it on the other." Demerest remembered what he had said to Gwen this evening. He repeated it now. "An unborn child doesn't have life-not an individual life. It's a fetus; it isn't a person.»«Let me ask you something," Harris said. "Did you ever see an aborted child? Afterward, I mean.»«No.»«I did once. A doctor I know showed it to me. It was in a glass jar, in formaldehyde; my friend kept it in a cupboard. I don't know where he got it, but he told me that if the baby had lived-not been aborted-it would have been a normal child, a boy. It was a fetus, all right, just the way you said, except it had been a human being, too. It was all there; everything perfectly formed; a good-looking face, hands, feet, toes, even a little penis. You know what I felt when I saw it? I felt ashamed; I wondered where the hell was 1; where were all other decent-minded, sensitive people when this kid, who couldn't defend himself, was being murdered? Because that's what happened; even though, most times, we're afraid to use the word.»«Hell! I'm not saying a baby should be taken out when it's that far along.»«You know something?" Harris said. "Eight weeks after conception, everything's present in a fetus that's in a full-term baby. In the third month the fetus looks like a baby. So where do you draw the line?" Demerest grumbled, "You should have been a lawyer, not a pilot." Just the same, he found himself wondering how far Gwen was along, then reasoned: if she conceived in San Francisco, as she assured him, it must be eight or nine weeks ago. Therefore, assuming Harris's statements to be true, there was almost a shaped baby now. It was time for another report to air route control. Vernon Demerest made it. They were at thirty-two thousand feet, near the top of their climb, and in a moment or two would cross the Canadian border and be over southern Ontario. Detroit and Windsor, the twin cities straddling the border, were ordinarily a bright splash of light, visible for miles ahead. Tonight there was only darkness, the cities shrouded and somewhere down below to starboard. Dernerest remembered that Detroit Metropolitan Airport had closed shortly before their own takeoff. Both cities, by now, would be taking the full brunt of the storm, which was moving east. Back in the passenger cabins, Demerest knew, Gwen Meighen and the other stewardesses would be serving a second round of drinks and, in first class, hot hors d'oeuvres on exclusive Rosenthal china. "I warned you I had strong feelings," Anson Harris said. "You don't need a religion, to believe in human ethics." Demerest growled, "Or to have screwbaU ideas. Anyway, people who think like you are on the losing side. The trend is to make abortion easier; eventuaffy, maybe, wide open and legal.»«If it happens," Harris said, "we'll be a backward step nearer the Auschwitz ovens.»«Nuts!" Demerest glanced up from the flight log, where he was recording their position, just reported. His irritability, seldom far below the surface, was beginning to show. "There are plenty of good arguments in favor of easy abortion-unwanted children who'll be born. to poverty and never get a chance; then the special cases –rape, incest, the mother's health.»«There are always special cases. It's like saying, ,okay, we'll permit just a little murder, providing you make out a convincing argument."' Harris shook his head, dissenting. "Then you talked about unwanted children. Well, they can be stopped by birth control. Nowadays everyone gets that opportunity, at every economic level. But if we slip up on that, and a human life starts growing, that's a new human being, and we've no moral right to condemn it to death. As to what we're born into, that's a chance we aH take without knowing it; but once we have life, good or bad, we're entitled to keep it, and not many, however bad it is, would give it up. The answer to poverty isn't to kill unborn babies, but to improve society."
Harris considered, then went on, "As to economics, there are economic arguments for everything. It makes economic logic to kill mental deficients and mongoloids right after birth; to practice euthanasia on the terminally ill; to weed out old and useless people, the way they do in Africa, by leaving them in the jungle for hyenas to eat. But we don't do it because we value human life and dignity. What I'm saying, Vernon, is that if we plan to progress we ought to value them a little more." The alti-meters-one in front of each pilot-touched thirty-three thousand feet. They were at the top of their climb. Anson Harris eased the aircraft into level flight while Second Officer Jordan reached forward again to adjust the throttles. Demerest said sourly to Harris, "Your trouble is cobwebs in the brain." He realized he had started the discussion; now, angrily, he wished he hadn't. To end the subject, he reached for the stewardess call button. "Let's get some hors d'oeuvres before the first class passengers wolf them all." Harris nodded. "Good idea." A minute or two later, in response to the telephoned order, Gwen Meighen brought three plates of aromatic hors d'oeuvres, and coffee. On Trans America, as on most airlines, captains got the fastest service. "Thanks, Gwen," Vernon Demerest said; then, as she leaned forward to serve Anson Harris, his eyes confirmed what he already knew. Gwen's waist was as slim as ever, no sign of anything yet; nor would there be, no matter what was going on inside. The heck with Harris and his old woman's arguments! Of course Gwen would haye an abortion-just as soon as they got back.Some sixty feet aft of the flight deck, in the tourist cabin, Mrs. Ada Quonsett was engaged in spirited conversation with the passenger on her right, whom she had discovered was an amiable, middle-aged oboe player from the Chicago Symphony. "What a wonderful thing to be a musician, and so creative. My late husband loved classical music. He fiddled a little himself, though not professionally, of course." Mrs. Quonsett was feeling warmed by a Dry Sack sherry for which her oboist friend had paid, and he had just inquired if she would like another. Mrs. Quonsett beamed, "Well, it's exceedingly kind of you, and perhaps I shouldn't, but I really think I will." The passenger on her left-the man with the little sandy mustache and scrawny neck-had been less communicative; in fact, disappointing. Mrs. Quonsett's several attempts at conversation had been rebuffed by mon– osyllabic answers, barely audible, while the man sat, mostly expressionless, still clasping his attach6 case on his knees. For a while, when they had all ordered drinks, Mrs. Quonsett wondered if the left-seat passenger might unbend. But he hadn't. He accepted Scotch from the stewardess, paid for it with a lot of small change that he had to count out, then tossed the drink down almost in a gulp. Her own sherry mellowed Mrs. Quonsett immediately, so that she thought: Poor man, perhaps he has problems, and I shouldn't bother him. She noticed, however, that the scrawny-necked man came suddenly alert when the captain made his announcement, soon after takeoff, about their speed, course, time of flight and all those other things which Mrs. Quonsett rarely bothered listening to. The man on her left, though, scribbled notes on the back of an envelope and afterward got out one of those Chart Your Own Position maps, which the airline supplied, spreading it on top of his attach6 case. He was studying the map now, and making pencil marks, in between glances at his watch. It all seemed rather silly and childish to Mrs. Quonsett, who was quite sure that there was a navigator up front, taking care of where the airplane ought to be, and when. Mrs. Quonsett then returned her attention to the oboist who was explaining that not until recently, when he had been in a public seat during a Bruckner symphony performance, had he realized that at a moment when his section of the orchestra was going "pom-tiddey-pom-pom," the cellos were sounding "ah-diddley– ah-dah." He mouthed both passages in tune to illustrate his point. "Really! How remarkably interesting; I'd never thought of that," Mrs. Quonsett exclaimed. "My late husband would have so enjoyed meeting you, though of course you are very much younger." She was now well into the second sherry and enjoying herself thoroughly. She thought: she had chosen such a nice flight; such a fine airplane and crew, the stewardesses polite and helpful, and with delightful passengers, except for the man on her left, who didn't really matter. Soon, dinner would be served and later, she had learned, there was to be a movie with Michael Caine, one of her favorite stars. What more could anyone possibly ask?Mrs. Quansett had been wrong in assuming that there was a navigator up front on the flight deck. There wasn't. Trans America, like most major airlines, no longer carried navigators, even on overseas flights, because of the multitude of radar and radio systems available on modem jet aircraft. The pilots, aided by constant air route control surveillance, did what little navigation was needed. However, had there been an old-time air navigator aboard Flight Two, his charted position of the aircraft would have been remarkably similar to that which D. 0. Guerrero had achieved by rough-and-ready reckoning. Guerrero had estimated several minutes earlier that they were close to Detroit; the estimate was right. He knew, because the captain had said so in his announcement to passengers, that their subsequent course would take them over Montreal; Fredericton, New Brunswick; Cape Ray; and later St. John's, Newfoundland. The captain had even been helpful enough to include the aircraft's ground speed as well as airspeed, making Guerrero's further calculations just as accurate. The east coast of Newfoundland, D. 0. Guerrero calculated, would be passed over in two-and-a-half hours from the present time. However, before then, the captain would probably make another position an– nouncement, so the estimate could be revised if necessary. After that, as already planned, Guerrero would wait a further hour to ensure that the flight was well over the Atlantic Ocean before pulling the cord on his case and exploding the dynamite inside. At this moment, in anticipation, his fingers clasping the attach6 case tensed. Now that the time of culmination was so close, he wanted it to come quickly. Perhaps, after all, he thought, he would not wait the full time. Once they had left Newfoundland, really any time would do. The shot of whisky had relaxed him. Although most of his earlier tension' had disappeared on coming aboard, it had built up again soon after takeoff, particularly when the irritating old cat in the next seat had tried to start a conversation. D. 0. Guerrero wanted no conversation, either now or later; in fact, no more communication with anyone else in this life. All that he wanted was to sit and dream-of three hundred thousand dollars, a larger sum than he had ever possessed at one time before, and which would be coming to Inez and the two children, he presumed, in a matter of days. Right now he could have used another whisky, but had no money left to pay for it. After his unexpectedly large insurance purchase, there had been barely enough small change for the single drink; so he would have to do without. As he had earlier, he closed his eyes. This time he was thinking of the effect on Inez and the children when they heard about the money. They ought to care about him for what he was doing, even though they wouldn't know the whole of it-that he was sacrificing himself, giving his own life for them. But perhaps they might guess a little. If they did, he hoped they would be appreciative, although he wondered about that, knowing from experience that people could be surprisingly perverse in reactions to what was done on their behalf. The strange thing was: In all his thoughts about Inez and the children, he couldn't quite visualize their faces. It seemed almost as though he were thinking about people whom he had never really known.
He compromised by conjuring up visions of dollar signs, followed by threes, and endless zeros. After a while he must have dropped off to sleep because, when he opened his eyes a quick glance at his watch showed that it was twenty minutes later, and a stewardess was leaning over from the aisle. The stewardess-an attractive brunette who spoke with an English accent-was asking, "Are you ready for dinner, sir? If so, perhaps you'd like me to take your case." 4Almost from their initial moment of meeting, Mel Bakersfeld had formed an instinctive dislike of the lawyer, Elliott Freemantle, who was leading the delegation of Meadowood residents. Now, ten minutes or so after the delegation filed into Mel's office, the dislike was sharpening to downright loathing. It seemed as if the lawyer was deliberately being as obnoxious as possible. Even before the discussion opened, there had been Freemantle's unpleasant remark about not wanting "a lot of doubletalk," which Mel parried mildly, though resenting it. Since then, every rejoinder of Mel's had been greeted with equal rudeness and skepticism. Mel's instinct cautioned him that Freemantle was deliberately baiting him, hoping that Mel would lose his temper and make intemperate statements, with the press recording them. If it was the lawyer's strategy, Mel had no intention of abetting it. With some difficulty, he continued to keep his own manner reasonable and polite. Freemantle had protested what he termed, "the callous indifference of this airport's management to the health and well-being of my clients, the good citizen families of Meadowood." Mel replied quietly that neither the airport nor the airlines using it had been callous or indifferent. "On the contrary, we have recognized that a genuine problem about noise exists, and have done our best to deal with it.»« Then your best, sir, is a miserable, weak effort! And you've done what?" Lawyer Freemantle declared, "So far as my clients and I can see-and hear-you've done no more than make empty promises which amount to nothing. It's perfectly evident-and the reason we intend to proceed to law-is that no one around here really gives a damn." The accusation was untrue, Mel countered. There had been a planned program of avoiding takeoffs on runway two five-which pointed directly at Meadowood –whenever an alternate runway could be used. Thus, two five was used mostly for landings only, creating little noise for Meadowood, even though entailing a loss in operating efficiency for the airport. In addition, pilots of all airlines had instructions to use noise abatement procedures after any takeoff in the general direction of Meadowood, on whatever runway, including turns away from Meadowood immediately after leaving the ground. Air traffic control had cooperated in all objectives. Mel added, "What you should realize, Mr. Freemantle, is that this is by no means the first meeting we have had with local residents. We've discussed our mutual problems many times." Elliott Freemantle snapped, "Perhaps At the other times there was not enough plain speaking.»«Whether that's true or not, you seem to be making up for it now.»«We intend to make up for a good deal-of lost time, wasted effort and bad faith, the latter not on my clients' part . Mel decided not to respond. There was nothing to be gained, for either side, by this kind of harangue-except, perhaps, publicity for Elliott Freemantle. Mel observed that the reporters' pencils were racing; one thing which the lawyer clearly understood was what made lively copy for the press.
As soon as he decently could, Mel resolved, he would cut this session short. He was acutely conscious of Cindy, still seated where she had been when the delegation came in, though now appearing bored, which was characteristic of Cindy whenever anything came up involving airport affairs. 'nis time, however, Mel sympathized with her. In view of the seriousness of what they had been discussing, he was finding this whole Meadowood business an intrusion himself. In Mel's mind, too, was his recurring concern for Keith. He wondered how things were with his brother, over in air traffic control. Should he have insisted that Keith quit work for tonight, and pursued their discussion which-until the tower watch chief's intervention cut it off-had seemed to be getting somewhere? Even now, perhaps, it was not too late … But then there was Cindy, who certainly had a right to be considered ahead of Keith; and now this waspish lawyer, Freemantle, still ranting on … "Since you chose to mention the so-called noise abatement procedures," Elliott Freemantle inquired sarcastically, "may I ask what happened to them tonight?" Mel sighed. "We've had a storm for three days." His glance took in the others in the delegation. "I'm sure you're all aware of it. It's created emergency situations." He explained the blockage of runway three zero, the temporary need for takeoffs on runway two five, with the inevitable effect on Meadowood. "That's all very well," one of the other men said. He was a heavy-jowled, balding man whom Mel had met at other discussions about airport noise. "We know about the storm, Mr. Bakersfeld. But if you've living directly underneath, knowing why airplanes are coming over doesn't make anyone feel better, storm or not. By the way, my name is Floyd Zanetta. I was chairman of the meeting . . .» Elliott Freernantle cut in smoothly. "If you'll excuse me, there's another point before we go on." Obviously the lawyer had no intention of relinquishing control of the delegation, even briefly. He addressed Mel, with a sideways glance at the press. "It isn't solely noise that's filling homes and ears of Meadowood, though that's bad enough-shattering nerves, destroying health, depriving children of their needed sleep. But there is a physical invasion . . ." This time Mel interrupted. "Are you seriously suggesting that as an alternative to what's happened tonight, the airport should close down?" "Not only am I suggesting that you do it; we may compel you. A moment ago I spoke of a physical invasion. It is that which I will prove, before the courts, on behalf of my clients. And we will win!" The other members of the delegation, including Floyd Zanetta, gave approving nods. While waiting for his last words to sink home, Elliott Freemantle deliberated. He supposed he had gone almost far enough. It was disappointing that the airport general manager hadn't blown a fuse, as Freernantle had been carefully goading him to do. The technique was one which he had used before, frequently with success, and it was a good technique because people who lost their tempers invariably came off worse in press reports, which wag what Freemantle was mainly concerned about. But Bakersfeld, though clearly annoyed, had been too smart to fall for that ploy. Well, never mind, Elliott Freemantle thought; he had been successful just the same. He, too, had seen the reporters industriously getting his words down-words which (with the sneer and hectoring tone removed) would read well in print; even better, he believed, than his earlier speech at the Meadowood meeting. Of course, Freemantle realized, this whole proceeding was just an exercise in semantics. Nothing would come of it. Even if the airport manager, Bakersfeld, could be persuaded to their point of view-a highly unlikely happening-there was little or nothing he could do about it. The airport was a fact of life and nothing would alter the reality of it being where and how it was. No, the value of being here at all tonight was partly in gaining public attention, but principally (from Lawyer Freemantle's viewpoint) to convince the Meadowood populace that they had a stalwart champion, so that those
legal retainer forms (as well as checks) would keep on flowing into the offices of Freemantle and Sye. It was a pity, Freemantle thought, that the remainder of the crowd from Meadowood, who were waiting downstairs, could not have heard him up here, dishing out the rough stuff-on their behalf-to Bakersfeld. But they would read about it in tomorrow's papers; also, Elliott Freemantle was not at all convinced that what was happening here and now would be the last Meadowood item on tonight's airport agenda. He had already promised the TV crews, who were waiting down below because they couldn't make it in here with their equipment, a statement when this present session was over. He had hopes that by now-because he had suggested it –the TV cameras would be set up in the main terminal concourse, and eveL though that Negro police lieutenant had forbidden any demonstration there, Freemantle had an idea that the TV session, astutely managed, might well develop into one. Elliott Freemantle's statement of a moment ago had concerned legal action-the action which, he had assured Meadowood residents earlier this evening, would be his principal activity on their behalf. "My business is law," he had told them. "Law and nothing else." It was not true, of course; but then, Elliott Freemantle's policies were apt to back and fill as expediency demanded– "What legal action you take," Mel Bakersfeld pointed out, "is naturally your own affair. All the same, I would remind you that the courts have upheld the rights of airports to operate, despite adjoining communities, as a matter of public convenience and necessity." Freemantle's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't realize that you are a lawyer too.»«I'm not a lawyer. I'm also quite sure you're aware of it.11 "Well, for a moment I was beginning to wonder." Elliott Freemantle smirked. "Because I am, you see, and with some experience in these matters. Furthermore, I assure you that there are legal precedents in my clients' favor." As he had at the meeting earlier, he rattled off the impressive-sounding list of cases-U.S. v. Causby, Griggs v. County of Allegheny, Thornburg v. Port of Portland, Martin v. Port of Seattle. Mel was amused, though he didn't show it. The cases were familiar to him. He also knew of others, which had produced drastically different judgments, and which Elliott Freemantle was either unaware of or had cagily avoided mentioning. Mel suspected the latter, but had no intention of getting into a legal debate. The place for that, if and when it happened, was in court. However, Mel saw no reason why the lawyer-whom he now disliked even more intensely-should have everything his own way. Speaking to the delegation generally, Mel explained his reason for avoiding legal issues, but added, "Since we are all here, there are some things I would like to say to you on the subject of airports and noise generally." Cindy, he observed, was yawning. Freemantle responded instantly. "I doubt if that will be necessary. The next step so far as we are concerned. . .»«Oh!" For the first time Mel dispensed with mildness, and bore down heavily. "Am I to understand that after I've listened patiently to you, you and your group are not prepared to extend the same courtesy?" The delegate, Zanetta, who had spoken before, glanced at the others. "I do think we ought . . ." Mel said sharply, "Let Mr. Freemantle answer.»«There's really no need"-the lawyer smiled suavely –"for anyone to raise their voice, or be discourteous.»«In that case, why have you been doing both those things ever since you came in?" "I'm not aware . . .»«Well, I am aware.»«Aren't you losing your temper, Mr. Bakersfeld?" "No," Mel smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not." He was conscious of having seized an advantage, catching the lawyer by surprise. Now he went on, "You've had a good deal to say, Mr. Freemantle, and not much of it politely. But there are a few things I'd like to get on the record, too. Also, I'm sure the press will be interested in both sides even if no one else is."
"Oh, we're interested all right. It's just that we've heard all the wishy-washy excuses already." As usual, Elliott Freemantle was recovering fast. But he admitted to himself that he bad been lulled by Bakersfeld's earlier mild manner, so that the sharp counterattack caught him unawares. He realized that the airport general manager was more astute than he appeared. "I didn't say anything about excuses," Mel pointed out. "I suggested a review of airport noise situations generally." Freemantle shrugged. The last thing he wanted was to open up some new approach which might be newsworthy and, therefore, divert attention from himself. At the moment, though, he didn't see how he could prevent it. " Ladies and gentlemen," Mel began, "when you first came here tonight something was said about plain, blunt speaking on both sides. Mr. Freemantle has had his turn at that; now I will be equally candid." Mel sensed he had the full attention of the two women and four men in the delegation; also of the press. Even Cindy was watching him covertly. He continued to speak quietly. "All of you know, or should, the measures which we have taken at Lincoln International Airport to make life easier, more bearable, from the point of view of aircraft noise, for those who live in the airport vicinity. Some of these measures have been mentioned already, and there are others, such as using remote airport areas for the testing of engines, and even then during proscribed hours only." Elliott Freemantle, already fidgeting, cut in. "But you've admitted that these so-called systems fail to work." Mel snapped back, "I admitted nothing of the kind. Most of the time they do work-as well as any compromise can. Tonight I've admitted that they are not working because of exceptional circumstances, and frankly if I were a pilot, taking off in weather like this, I'd be reluctant to reduce power right after takeoff, and make a climbing turn too. Furthermore, this kind of condition is bound to recur from time to time.»«Most of the time!" "No, sirl And please allow me to finish!" Without pausing, Mel went on, "The fact is: airports-here and elsewhere-have come close to doing as much as they can in the way of noise reduction. You may not like hearing this, and not everyone in this business admits it, but the truth is: there isn't a lot more that anyone can do. You simply cannot tiptoe a three hundred thousand pound piece of high-powered machinery into any place. So when you do bring a big jet airplane in-or take it out-inevitably it shakes hell out of a few people who are nearby." There were several quick smiles, though not from Elliott Freemantle, who was scowling. Mel added, "So if we need airports-and obviously we do –somebody, somewhere has to put up with some noise, or move away." It was Mel's turn to see the reporters' pencils racing with his words. "It's true," Mel continued, "that aircraft manufacturers are working on noise reduction devices, butagain to be honest with yo-few people in the aviation industry take them seriousiy, and certainly they do not represent a major effort like, for example, development of a new aircraft. At best, they'll be palliatives. If you don't believe me, let me remind you that even though trucks have been in use for many years more than airplanes, no one has yet invented a really effective truck muffler. "Another thing to bear in mind is that by the time one type of jet engine gets quieted a little-if it ever does-there'll be new, more powerful engines in use which, even with suppressors fitted, will be noisier than the first engine was to begin with. As I said," Mel added, "I am being absolutely frank." One of the women in the delegation murmured gloomily, "You sure are.»«Which brings me," Mel said, "to the question of the future. There are new breeds of aircraft coming-another family of jets after the Boeing 747s, including
behemoths like the Lockheed 500, which will come into use soon; then shortly afterward, the supersonic transports-the Concord6, and those to follow. The Lockheed 500 and its kind will be subsonic-that is, they'll operate at less than the speed of sound, and will give us the kind of noise we have now, only more of it. The supersonics will have a mighty engine noise too, plus a sonic boom as they breach the sound barrier, which is going to he more of a problem than any other noise we've had so far. "You may have heard or read-as I have-optimistic reports that the sonic booms will occur high, far from cities and –tirports, and that the effect on thi ground will be minor. Don't believe it! We're in for trouble, all of us –people !n homes, like you; people like me, who run airports; airlines, who'll have a billion dollars invested in equipment which they must use continuously, or go bankrupt. Believe me, the time is coming when we'll wish we had the simplicity of the kind of noise we're talking about tonight.»«So what are you telling my clients?" Elliott Freemantle inquired sarcastically. "To go jump in the lunatic asylum now rather than wait until you and your behemoths drive them there?" "No," Mel said firmly, "I'm not telling them that. I'm merely saying candidly-the way you asked me to-that I haven't any simple answers; nor will I make you promises that the airport cannot keep. Also I'm saving that in my opinion, airport noise is going to bec~me greater, nw less. However, I'd like to remind all of you that this problem isn't new. It's existed since trains started running, and since trucks, buses, and automobiles joined them; there was the same problem when freeways were built through residential areas; and when airports were established, and grew. All these things are for the public good-or so we believe-yet all of them create noisc and, despite all kinds of efforts, they've continued t,-). The thing is: trucks, trains, freeways, airplanes, and the rest are here. They're part of the way we live, and unless we change our way of life, then their noise is something we have to live with too.»«In other words, my clients should abandon any idea of serenity, uninterrupted sleep, privacy and quietness for the remainder of their natural lives?" "No," Mel said. "I think, in the end, they'll have to move. I'm not speaking officially, of course, but I'm convinced that eventually this airport and others will be obliged to make multibillion-dollar purchases of residential areas surrounding them. A good many of the areas can become industrial zones where noise won't matter. And of course, there would be reasonable compensation to those who owned homes and were forced to leave them." Elliott Freemantle rose and motioned others in the delegation to do the same. "That last remark," he informed Mel, "is the one sensible thing I've heard this evening. However, the compensation may start sooner than you think, and also be larger." Freemantle nodded curtly. "You will be hearing from us. We shall see you in court." He went out, the others following. Through the door to the anteroom Mel heard one of the two women delegates exclaim, "You were magnificent, Mr. Freemantle. I'm going to tell everyone so.»«Well, thank you. Thank you very . The voices faded. Mel went to the door, intending to close it. "I'm sorry about that," he said to Cindy. Now that the two of them were alone again, he was not sure what else they had to say to each other, if anything. Cindy said icily, "It's par for the course. You should have married an airport." At the doorway, Mel noticed that one of the men reporters had returned to the anteroom. It was Tomlinson of the Tribune. "Mr. Bakersfeld, could I see you for a moment?" Mel said wearily, "What is it?" "I got the impression you weren't too smitten with Mr. Freemantle.»«Is this for quotation?" "No, sir.»«Then your impression was right."
"I thought you'd be interested in this," the reporter said. "This" was one of the legal retainer forms which Elliott Freemantle had distributed at the Meadowood community meeting. As Mel read the form, he asked, "Where did you get it?" The reporter explained. "How many people were at the meeting?" "I counted. Roughly six hundred.»«And how many of these forms were signed?" "I can't be sure of that, Mr. Bakersfeld. My guess would be a hundred and fifty were signed and tumed in. Then there were other people who said they'd send theirs by mail." Mel thought grimly: now be could understand Elliott Freemantle's histrionics; also why and whom the lawyer was trying to impress. "I guess you're doing the same arithmetic I did," the reporter, Tomlinson, said. Mel nodded. "It adds up to a tidy little sum.»«Sure does. I wouldn't mind a piece of it myself.»«Maybe we're both in the wrong business. Did you cover the Meadowood meeting too?" "Yes.»«Didn't anyone over there point out that the total legal fee was likely to be at least fifteen thousand dollars?" Tomlinson shook his head. "Either no one thought of it, or they didn't care. Besides, Freemantle has quite a personality; hypnotic, I guess you'd call it. He had 'em spellbound, like he was Billy Graham." Mel banded back the printed retainer form. "Will you put this in your story?" "I'll put it in, but don't be surprised if the city desk kills it. They're always wary about professional legal stuff. Besides, I guess if you come right down to it, there's nothing really wrong.»«No," Mel said, "it may be unethical, and I imagine the bar association wouldn't like it. But it isn't illegal. What the Meadowood folk should have done, of course, was get together and retain a lawyer as a group. But if people are gullible, and want to make lawyers rich, I guess it's their own affair." Tomlinson grinned. "May I quote some of that?" "You just got through telling me your paper wouldn't print it. Besides, this is off the record. Remember?" "Okay. 11 If it would have done any good, Mel thought, he would have sounded off, and taken a chance on being quoted or not. But he knew it wouldn't do any good. He also knew that all over the country, ambulance chasing lawyers like Elliott Freemantle were busily signing up groups of people, then harassing airports, airlines, and –in some cases-pilots. It was not the harassing which Mel objected to; that, and legal recourse, were everyone's privilege. It was simply that in many instances the homeowner clients were being misled, buoyed up with false hopes, and quoted an impressive-sounding, but one-sided selection of legal precedents such as Elliott Freemantle had used tonight. As a result, a spate of legal actions-costly and time-coasuming-was being launched, most of which were foredoomed to fail, and from which only the lawyers involved would emerge as beneficiaries. Mel wished that he had known earlier what Tomlinson had just told him. In that case he would have loaded his remarks to the delegation, so as to convey a warning about Elliott Freemantle, and what the Meadowood residents were getting into. Now it was too late. "Mr. Bakersfeld," the Tribune reporter said, "there are some other things I'd like to ask you-about the airport generally. If you could spare a few minutes . . .»«Any other time I'll be glad to." Mel raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Right now there are fifteen things happening at once." The reporter nodded. "I understand. Anyway, I'll be around for a while. I hear Freemantle's bunch are cooking up something down below. So if there's a chance later. . .»«I'll do my best," Mel said, though he bad no intention of being available any more tonight. He respected
Tomlinson's wish to dig below the surface of any story which he covered; just the same, Mel had seen enough of delegations and reporters for one evening. As to whatever else it was that Freemantle and the Meadowood people were "cooking up down below," he would leave any worrying about that, Mel decided, to Lieutenant Ordway and his policemen. 5When Mel turned, after closing the door of his office as the Tribune reporter left, Cindy was standing, pulling on her gloves. She remarked acidly, "Fifteen things happening, I betieve you said. Whatever the other fourteen are, I'm sure they'll all take priority over me.»«That was a figure of speech," Mel protested, "as you know perfectly well. I already said I'm sorry. I didn't know this was going to happen-at least, not all at once.»«But you love it, don't you? All of it. Much more than me, home, the children, a decent social life.»«Ah!" Mel said. "I wondered when you'd get to that." He stopped. "Oh, hell! Why are we fighting again? We settled everything, didn't we? There's no need to fight any more.»«No," Cindy said. She was suddenly subdued. "No, I suppose not." There was an uncertain silence. Mel broke it first. "Look, getting a divorce is a pretty big thing for both of us; for Roberta and Libby, too. If you've any doubts 11;1 Haven't we been over that already?" "Yes; but if you want to, we'll go over it fifty times again.»«I don't want to." Cindy shook her head decisively. "I haven't any doubts. Nor have you, not really. Have you?" "No," Mel said. "I'm afraid I haven't." Cindy started to say something, then stopped. She had been going to tell Mel about Lionel Urquhart, but decided against it. There was plenty of time for Mel to find that out for himself, later. As to Derek Eden, whom Cindy had been thinking about during most of the time that the Meadowood delegation had been in the office, she had no intention of disclosing his existence to Mel or Lionel. There was a knock-light but definite-on the anteroom door. "Oh, God!" Cindy muttered, "Isn't there any privacy?" Mel called out irritably, "Who is it?" The door opened. "Just me," Tanya Livingston said. "Mel, I need some advice . . ." As she saw Cindy, she stopped abruptly. "Excuse me. I thought you were alone.»«He will be," Cindy said. "In hardly any time at all.»«Please, no!" Tanya flushed. "I can come back, Mrs. Bakersfeld. I didn't know I was disturbing you." Cindy's eyes flicked over Tanya, stiff in Trans America uniform. "It's probably time we were disturbed," Cindy said. "After all, it's been a good three minutes since the last people left, and that's longer than we usually have together." She swung toward Mel. "Isn't it?" He shook his head, without answering. "By the way." Cindy turned back to Tanya. "I'm curious about one thing. How you were so sure who I am.11 Momentarily, Tanya had lost her usual poise. Recovering it, she gave a small smile. "I suppose I guessed," Cindy's eyebrows went up. "Am I supposed to do the same?" She glanced at Mel. "No," he said. He introduced them. Mel was aware of Cindy appraising Tanya Livingston. He had not the slightest doubt that his wife was already forming some conclusion about Tanya and him– self; Mel had long ago learned that Cindy's instincts about rnen-women relationships were uncannily accurate. Besides, he was sure that his own introduction of Tanya had betrayed something. Husbands and wives were too familiar with each other's nuances of speech for that not to happen. It would not even surprise him if Cindy guessed about his own and Tanya's rendezvous for later tonight, though perhaps, he reflected, that was carrying imagination too far. Well, whatever Cindy knew or guessed, he supposed it didn't really matter. After all, she was the one who had asked for a divorce, so why should she object to someone else in Mel's life, however much or little Tanya meant, and he wasn't sure of that himself? But then, Mel reminded himself, that was a logical way of thinking. Women-including Cindy, and probably Tanya-were seldom logical. The last thought proved right. "How nice for you," Cindy told him with pseudo sweetness, "that it isn't just dull old delegations who come to you with problems." She eyed Tanya. "You did say you have a problem?" Tanya returned the inspection levelly. "I said I wanted some advice.»«Oh, really! What kind of advice? Was it business, personal? … Or perhaps you've forgotten.»«Cindy," Mel said sharply, "that's enough! You've no reason . . .»«No reason for what? And why is it enough?" His wife's voice was mocking; he had the impression that in a perverse way she was enjoying herself. "Aren't you always telling me I don't take enough interest in your problems? Now I'm all agog about your friend's problem … that is, if there is one." Tanya said crisply, "It's about Flight Two." She added. "That's Trans America's flight to Rome, Mrs. Bakersfeld. It took off half an hour ago." Mel asked, "What about Flight Two?" "To tell the truth"-Tanya hesitated-"I'm not really sure.»«Go ahead," Cindy said. "Think of something." Mel snapped, "Oh, shut up!" He addressed Tanya, "What is it?" Tanya glanced at Cindy, then told him of her conversation with Customs Inspector Standish. She described the man with the suspiciously held attach& case, whom Standish suspected of smuggling. "He went aboard Flight Two?" "Yes. 11"Then even if your man was smuggling," Mel pointed out, "it would be into Italy. The U.S. Customs people don't worry about that. They let other countries look out for themselves.»«I know. That's the way our D.T.M. saw it." Tanya described the exchange between herself and the District Transportation Manager, ending with the latter's irritable but firm instruction, "Forget it!" Mel looked puzzled. "Then I don't see why . . "I told you I'm not sure, and maybe this is all silly. But I kept thinking about it, so I started checking.»«Checking what?" Both of them had forgotten Cindy. "Inspector Standish," Tanya said, "told me that the man-the one with the attach6 case-was almost the last to board the flight. He must have been because I was at the gate, and I missed seeing an old woman . . ." She corrected herself. "That part doesn't matter. Anyway, a few minutes ago I got bold of the gate agent for Flight Two and we went over the manifest and tickets together. He couldn't remember the man with the case, but we narrowed it down to five names.»«And then?" "Just on a hunch I called our check-in counters to see if anyone remembered anything about any of those five people. At the airport counters, nobody did. But downtown, one of the agents did remember the man-the one with the case. So I know his name; the description fits . everything.»«I still don't see what's so extraordinary. He had to check in somewhere. So he checked in downtown.»«The reason the agent remembered him," Tanya said,
"is that lie didn't have any baggage, except the little case. Also, the agent said, he was extremely nervous.»«Lots of people are nervous . . ." Abruptly Mel stopped. He frowned. "No baggage! For a flight to Rome! " "That's right. Except for the little bag the man was carrying, the one Inspector Standish noticed. The agent downtown called it a briefcase.»«But nobody goes on that kind of journey without baggage. It doesn't make sense.»«That's what I thought." Again Tanya hesitated. "It doesn't make sense unless "Unless what?" "Unless you happen to know already that the flight you're on will never get to where it's supposed to be going. If you knew that, you'd also know that you wouldn't need any baggage.»«Tanya," Mel said softly, "what are you trying to say?" She answered uncomfortably, "I'm not sure; that's why I came to you. When I think about it, it seems silly and melodramatic, only. . 11 Go on.»«Well, supposing that man we've been talking about isn't smuggling at all; at least, in the way we've all assumed. Supposing the reason for him not having any luggage, for being nervous, for holding the case the way Inspector Standish noticed . . . suppose instead of having some sort of contraband in there . . . he has a bomb." Their eyes held each other's steadily. Mel's mind was speculatin ' a, assessing possibilities. To him, also, the idea which Tanya had just raised seemed ridiculous and remote. Yet . . . in the past, occasionally, such things had happened. The question was: How could you decide if this was another time? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the entire episode of the man with the attach6 case could so easily be inno cent; in fact, probably was. If that proved true after a fuss had been created, whoever began the fuss would have made a fool of himself. It was human not to want to do that; yet, with the safety of an airplane and passengers involved, did making a fool of oneself matter? Obviously not. On the other hand, there ought to be a stronger reason for the drastic actions which a bomb scare would involve than merely a possibility, plus a hunch. Was there, Mel wondered, some way conceivably in which a stronger hint, even corroboration, might be found? Offhand, be couldn't think of one. But there was something he could check. It was a long shot, but all that was needed was a phone call. He supposed that seeing Vernon Dernerest tonight, with the reminder of the clash before the Board of Airport Com– missioners, had made him think of it. For the second time this evening, Mel consulted his pocket panic-list of telephone numbers. Then, using an internal airport telephone on his desk, he dialed the insurance vending booth in the main concourse. The girl clerk who answered was a long-time employee whom Melknew well. "Marj," he said, when he had identified himself, "have you written many policies tonight on the Trans America Flight Two?" "A few more than usual, Mr. Bakersfeld. But then we have on all flights; this kind of weather always does that. On Flight Two, I've had about a dozen, and I know Bunnie-that's the other girl on with me-has written some as well.»«What I'd like you to do," Mel told her, "is read me all the names and policy amounts." As he sensed the girl hesitate, "If I have to, I'll call your district manager and get authority. But you know he'll give it to me, and I'd like you to take my word that this is important. Doing it this way, you can save me time.»«All right, Mr. Bakersfeld; if you say it's okay. But it will take a few minutes to get the policies together.»«I'll wait." Mel heard the telephone put down, the girl apologize to someone at the insurance counter for the interruption. There was a rustling of papers, then another girl's voice inquiring, "Is something wrong?"
Covering the telephone mouthpiece, Mel asked Tanya, "What's that name you have-the man with the case?" She consulted a slip of paper. "Guerrero, or it may be Buerrero; we had it spelled both ways." She saw Mel start. "Initials D.O." Mel's hand still cupped the telephone. His mind was concentrating. The woman who had been brought to his office half an hour ago was named Guerrero; he remembered Lieutenant Ordway saying so. She was the one whom the airport police had found wandering in the terminal. According to Ned Ordway, the woman was distressed and crying; the police couldn't get any sense from her. Mel was going to try talking to her himself, but hadn't gotten around to it. He had seen the woman on the point of leaving the outer office as the Meadowood delegation came in. Of course, there might be no connection … Through the telephone, Mel could still hear voices at the insurance booth and, in the background, the noise of the main terminal concourse. "Tanya," he said quietly, "about twenty minutes ago there was a woman in the outside office-middle-aged, shabbily dressed; she looked wet and draggle-tailed. I believe she left when some other people came in, but she might be stiff around. If she's anywhere outside, bring her in. In any case, if you find her, don't let her get away from you." Tanya looked puzzled. He added, "Her name is Mrs. Guerrero." As Tanya left the office, the girl clerk at the insurance booth came back on the line. "I have all those policies, Mr. Bakersfeld. Are you ready if I read the names?" "Yes, Marj. Go ahead." He listened carefully. As a name near the end occurred, he had a sudden sense of tension. For the first time his voice was urgent. "Tell me about that policy. Did you write it?" "No. That was one of Bunnie's. I'll let you speak to her." He listened to what the other girl had to say and asked two or three questions. Their exchange was brief. He broke the connection and was dialing another number as Tanya returned. Though her eyes asked questions which for the moment he ignored, she reported immediately, "There's no one on the mezzanine. There are still a million people down below, but you'd never pick anyone out. Should we page?" "We can try, though I don't have a lot of hope." On the basis of what he had learned, Mel thought, not much was getting through to the Guerrero woman, so it was unlikely that a p.a. announcement would do so now. Also, by this time she could have left the airport and be halfway to the city. He reproached himself for not having tried to talk with her, as he had intended, but there had been the other things: the delegation from Meadowood; his anxiety about his brother, Keith-Mel remembered that he had considered going back to the control tower . . . well, that would have to wait now … then there had been Cindy. With a guilty start because he hadn't noticed before, he realized that Cindy was gone. He reached for the p.a. microphone on his desk and pushed it toward Tanya. There was an answer from the number he had dialed, which was airport police headquarters. Mel said crisply, "I want Lieutenant Ordway. Is he still in the terminal?" "Yes, sir." The police desk sergeant was familiar with Mel's voice. "Find him as quickly as you can; I'll bold. And by the way, what was the first name of a woman called Guerrero, whom one of your people picked up tonight? I think I know, but I want to make sure.»«Just a minute, sir. I'll look." A moment later he said, "It's Inez; Inez Guerrero. And we've already called the lieutenant on his beeper box." Mel was aware that Lieutenant Ordway, like many others at the airport, carried a pocket radio receiver which gave a "beep" signal if he was required urgently. Somewhere, at this moment, Ordway was undoubtedly hastening to a phone. Mel gave brief instructions to Tanya, then pressed the
"on" switch of the p.a. microphone, which overrode all others in the terminal. Through the open doors to the anteroom and mezzanine he heard an American Airlines flight departure announcement halt abruptly in mid-sen– tence. Only twice before, during the eight years of Mel's tenure as airport general manager, had the mike and override switch been used. The first occasion-branded in Mel's memory-had been to announce the death of President Kennedy; the second, a year later, was when a lost and crying child wandered directly into Mel's office. Usually there were regular procedures for handling lost children, but that time Mel had used the mike himself to locate the frantic parents. Now he nodded to Tanya to begin her announcement, remembering that he was not yet sure why they wanted the woman, Inez Guerrero, or even that-for certainthere was anything wrong at all. Yet instinct told him that there was; that something serious had happened, or was happening; and when you had a puzzle of that kind, the smart and urgent thing to do was gather all the pieces that you could, hoping that somehow, with help from other people, you could fit them together to make sense. "Attention please," Tanya was saying in her clear, unaffected voice, now audible in every comer of the terminal. "Will Mrs. Inez Guerrero, or Buerrero, please come immediately to the airport general manager's office on the administrative mezzanine of the main terminal building. Ask any airline or airport representative to direct you. I will repeat . . ." There was a click in Mel's telephone. Lieutenant Ordway came on the line. "We want that woman," Mel told him. "The one who was here-Guerrero. We're announcing. . "I know," Ordway said. "I can hear.»«We need her urgently; I'll explain later. For now, take my word. . .»«I already have. When did you last see her?" "In my outer office. When she was with you.»«Okay. Anything else?" "Only that this may be big. I suggest you drop every– thing; use at] your men. And whether you find her or not, get up here soon.»«Right." There was another click as Ordway hung up. Tanya had finished her announcement; she pushed the "off" button of the microphone. Outside, Met could hear another announcement begin, "Attention Mr. Lester Mainwaring. Will Mr. Mainwaring and all members of his party report immediately to the main terminal entrance?" "Lester Mainwaring" was an airport code name for policeman." Normally, such an announcement meant that the nearest policeman on duty was to go wherever the message designated. "All members of his party" meant every policeman in the terminal. Most airports had similar systems to alert their police without the public being made aware. Ordway was wasting no time. Undoubtedly he would brief his men about Inez Guerrero as they reported to the main entrance. "Call your D.T.M.," Mel instructed Tanya. "Ask him to come to this office as quickly as he can. Tell him it's important." Partly to himself, he added, "We'll start by getting everybody here." Tanya made the call, then reported, "He's on his way." Her voice betrayed nervousness. Met had gone to the office door. He closed it. " You still haven't told me," Tanya said, "what it was you found out." Mel chose his words carefully. "Your man Guerrero, the one with no luggage except the little attacb6 case, and whom you think might have a bomb aboard Flight Two, took out a flight insurance policy just before takeoff for three hundred thousand dollars. ne beneficiary is Inez Guerrero. He paid for it with what looked like his last small change.»«My God!" Tanya's face went white. She whispered, "Oh, dear God … no!"6There were times-tonight was one-when Joe Patroni was grateful that he worked in the maintenance baitiwick of aviation, and not in sales. The thought occurred to him as he surveyed the busy activity of digging beneath, and around the mired A6reo-Mexican jet which continued to block runway three zero. As Patroni saw it, airline sales forces-in which category he lumped all front office staff and executivescomprised inflatable rubber people who connived against each other like fretful ~hfldren. On the other hand, Patroni was convinced that those in engineering and maintenance departments behaved like mature adults. Maintenance men (Joe was apt to argue), even when employed by competing airlines, worked closely and harmoniously, sharing their information, experience, and even secrets for the common good. As Joe Patroni sometimes confided privately to his friends, an example of this unofficial sharing was the pooling of information which came to maintenance men regularly through conferences held by individual airlines. Patroni's employers, like most major scheduled airlines, had daily telephone conferences-known as "briefings"-during which all regional headquarters, bases, and outfield stations were connected through a continent-wide closed-circuit hook-up. Directed by a head office vice-president, the briefings were, in fact, critiques and information exchanges on the way the airline had operated during the past twenty-four hours. Senior people throughout the company's system talked freely and frankly with one another. Operations and sales departments each had their own daily briefing; so did maintenance-the latter, in Patroni's opinion, by far the most important. During the maintenance sessions, in which Joe Patroni took part five days a week, stations reported one by one. Where delays in service-for mechanical reasons –had occurred the previous day, those in charge were required to account for them. Nobody bothered making excuses. As llatroni put it: "If you goofed, you say so." Accidents or failures of equipment, even minor, were reported; the objective, to pool knowledge and prevent recurrence. At next Monday's session, Patroni would report toniuht's experience with the A6reo-Mexican 707, and his success or failure, however it turned out. The daily discussions were strictly no-nonsense, largely because the maintenance men were tough cookies who knew they couldn't fool one another. After each official conference-and usually unknown to senior managements-unofficial ones began. Patroni and others would exchange telephone calls with cronies in maintenance departments of competing airlines. They would compare notes about one another's daily conferences, passing on what information seemed worth while. Rarely was any intelligence withheld. With more urgent matters-especially those affecting safety-word was passed from airline to airline in the same way, but without the day's delay. If Delta, for example, had a rotor blade faflure on a DC– 9 in flight, maintenance departments of Eastern, TWA, Continental, and others using DC-9s, were told within hours; the information might help prevent similar failures on other aircraft. Later, photographs of the disassembled engine, and a technical report, would follow. If they wished, foremen and mechanics from other airlines could widen their knowledge by dropping over for a look-see at the failed part, and any engine damage. Those who, like Patroni, worked in this give-and-take milieu were fond of pointing out that if sales and administration departments of competing airlines bad occasion to consult, their people seldom went to one another's headquarters, but met on neutral ground. Maintenance men, in contrast, visited competitors' premises with the assurance of a common freemasonry. At other times, if one maintenance department was in trouble, others helped as they were able.
This second kind of help had been sent, tonight, to Joe Patroni. In the hour and a half since work began in the latest attempt to move the stranded jet from alongside runway three zero, Patroni's complement of help had almost doubled. He had begun with the original small crew of A6reo-Mexican, supplemented by some of his own people from TWA. Now, digging steadily with the others, were ground crews from Braniff, Pan Am, American, and Eastern. As the various newcomers had arrived, in an assortment of airline vehicles, it became evident that news of Patroni's problem had spread quickly on the airport grapevine, and, without waiting to be asked, other maintenance departments had pitched in. It gave Joe Patroni a good, appreciative feeling. Despite the extra help, Patroni's estimate of an hour's preparatory work had already been exceeded. Digging of twin trenches, floored by heavy timbers, in front of the airliner's main landing gear had gone ahead steadily –though slowly because of the need for all the men working to seek shelter periodically, to warm themselves. The shelter and the warmth, of a sort, were in two crew buses. As the men entered, they beat their hands and pinched their faces, numb from the biting wind still sweeping icily across the snow-covered airfield. The buses and other vehicles, including trucks, snow clearance equipment, a fuel tanker, assorted service cars, and a roaring power cart-most with beacon lights flashing-were still clustered on the taxiway close by. The whole scene was bathed by floodlights, creating a white oasis of snow-reflected light in the surrounding darkness. The twirt trenches, each six feet wide, now extended forward and upward from the big jet's main wheels to the firmer ground onto which Patroni hoped the airplane could be moved under its own power. At the deepest level of the trenches was a mess of mud beneath snow, which had originally trapped the momentarily strayed airliner. The mud and slush now mingled, but became less viscous as both trenches angled upward. A third trench, less deep, and narrower than the other two, had been dug to allow passage of the nosewheel. Once the firmer ground was reached, the aircraft would be clear of runway three zero, over which one of its wings now extended, It could also be maneuvered with reasonable ease onto the solid surface of the adjoining taxiway. Now the preparatory work was almost complete, the success of what came next would depend on the aircraft's pilots, still waiting on the Boeing 707's flight deck, high above the current activity. What they would have to judge was how much power they could safely use to propel the aircraft forward, without upending it on its nose. Through most of the time since he arrived, Joe Patroni had wielded a shovel with the rest of the men digging. Inactivity came hard to him. Sometimes, too, he welcomed the chance to keep himself fit; even now, more than twenty years since quitting the amateur boxing ring, he was in better shape physically than most men years his junior. The airline ground crewmen enjoyed seeing Patroni's cocky, stocky figure working with them. He led and exhorted . . . "Keep moving, son, or we'll figure we're gravediggers, and you the corpse." . . . "The way you guys keep heading for that bus, looks like you've got a woman stashed there." . . . "If you lean on that shovel any more, Jack, you'll freeze solid like Lot's wife." . . . "Men, we want this airplane moved before it's obsolete." So far, Joe Patroni had not talked with the captain and first officer, having left that to the A6reo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, who had been in charge before Patroni's arrival. Ingram had passed up a message on the aircraft interphone, telling the pilots what was happening below. Now, straightening his back, and thrusting his shovel at Ingram, the maintenance chief advised, "Five minutes more should do it. When you're ready, get the men and trucks clear." He motioned to the snow-shrouded airplane. "When this one comes out, she'll be like a cork from a champagne bottle." Ingram, huddled into his parka, still pinched and cold as he had been earlier, nodded.
"While you're doing that," Patroni said, "I'll yak with the fly boys. The old-fashioned boarding ramp which had been trundled from the terminal several hours ago to disembark the stranded passengers was still in place near the aircraft's nose. Joe Patroni climbed the ramp, its steps covered in deep snow, and let himself into the front passenger cabin. He went for-ward to the flight deckwith relief, lighting his inevitable cigar as he went. In contrast to the cold and wind-blown snow outside, the pilots' cockpit was snug and quiet. One of the communications radios was tuned to soft music of a commercial station. As Patroni entered, the A6reo-Mexican first officer, in shirt-sleeves, snapped a switch and the music stopped. "Don't worry about doing that." The chunky maintenance chief shook himself like a bull terrier while snow cascaded from his clothing. "Nothing wrong with taking things easy. After all, we didn't expect you to come down and shovel." Only the first officer and captain were in the cockpit. Patroni remembered hearing that the flight engineer had gone with the stewardesses and passengers to the terminal. The captain, a heavy-set, swarthy man who resembled Anthony Quinn, swiveled around in his port-side seat. He said stiffly, "We have our job to do. You have yours." His English was precise. "That's right," Patroni acknowledged. "Only trouble is, our job gets fouled up and added to. By other people.»«If you are speaking of what has happened here," the captain said, "Madre de Dios!-you do not suppose that I placed this airplane in the mud on purpose.»«No, I don't." Patroni discarded his cigar, which was maimed from chewing, put a new one in his mouth, and lit it. "But now it's there, I want to make sure we get it out-this next time we try. If we don't, the airplane'll be in a whole lot deeper; so will all of us, including you." He nodded toward the captain's seat. "How'd you like me to sit there and drive it out?" The captain flushed. Few people in any airline talked as casually to four-stripers as Joe Patroni. "No, thank you," the captain said coldly. He might have replied even more unpleasantly, except that at the moment he was suffering acute embarrassment for having got into his present predicament at all. To– morrow in Mexico City, he suspected, he would face an unhappy, searing session with his airline's chief pilot. He raged inwardly: Jesucristo y por la amor de Dios! "There's a lotta half-frozen guys outside who've been busting their guts," Patroni insisted. "Getting out.now's tricky. I've done it before. Maybe you should let me again." The A6reo-Mexican captain bridled. "I know who you are, Mr. Patroni, and I am told that you are likely to help us move from this bad ground, where others have failed. So I have no doubt that you are licensed to taxi airplanes. But let me remind you there are two of us here who are licensed to fly them. It is what we are paid for. Therefore we shall remain at the controls.»«Suit yourself." Joe Patroni shrugged, then waved his cigar at the control pedestal. "Only thing is, when I give the word, open those throttles all the way. And I mean all the way, and don't chicken out." As he left the cockpit, he ignored angry glares from both pilots. Outside, digging had stopped; some of the men who had been working were warming themselves again in the crew buses. The buses and other vehicles-with the exception of the power cart, which was needed for starting engines-were being removed some distance from the airplane. Joe Patroni closed the forward cabin door behind him and descended the ramp. The foreman, huddled deeper than ever into his parka, reported, "Everything's set." Remembering his cigar was still lighted, Patroni puffed at it several times, then dropped it into the snow where it went out. He motioned to the silent jet engines. "Okay, let's light up all four." Several men were returning from the crew bus. A quartet put their shoulders to the ramp beside the air– craft and shoved it clear. Two others responded to the foreman's shout against the wind, "Ready to start engines!" One of the second pair stationed himself at the front of the aircraft, near the power cart. He wore a telephone headset plugged into the fuselage. The second man, with flashlight signal wands, walked forward to where he could be seen by the pilots above. Joe Patroni, with borrowed protective head pads, joined the crewman with the telephone headset. The remainder of the men were now scrambling from the sheltering buses, intent on watching what came next. In the cockpit, the pilots completed their checklist. On the ground below, the crewman with the telephone set began the jet starting ritual. "Clear to start engines." A pause. The captain's voice. "Ready to start, and pressurize the manifold." From the power cart blower, a stream of forced air hit the air turbine starter of number three engine. Compressor vanes turned, spun faster, whined. At fifteen percent speed, the first officer fed in aviation kerosene. As the fuel ignited, a smoke cloud belched back and the engine took hold with a deep-throated bellow. "Clear to start four." Number four engine followed three. Generators on both engines charging. The captain's voice. "Switching to generators. Disconnect ground power." Above the power cart, electric lines came down. "Disconnected. Clear to start two." Number two took hold. Three engines now. An encompassing roar. Snow streaming behind. Number one fired and held. "Disconnect air.»«Disconnected." The umbilical air hose slipped down. The foreman drove the power cart away. Floodlights ahead of the aircraft had been moved to one side. Patroni exchanged headsets with the crewman near the front of the fuselage. The maintenance chief now had the telephone set, and communication with the pilots. "This's Patroni. VAen you're ready up there, let's roll her out." Ahead of the aircraft nose, the crewman with the lighted wands held them up, ready to be a guide along an elliptical path beyond the trenches, also cleared at Joe Patroni's direction. The crewman was ready to run if the 707 came out of the mud faster than expected. Patroni crouched close to the nosewheel. If the airplane moved quickly, he, too, was vulnerable. He held a hand near the interphone plug, ready to disconnect. He watched the main landing gear intently for a sign of forward movement. The captain's voice. "I am opening up." The tempo of the jets increased. In a roar like sustained thunder, the airplane shook, the ground beneath it trembled. But the wheels remained still. Patroni cupped his hands around the interphone mouthpiece. "More power! Throttles forward all the way!" Ile engine noise heightened but only slightly. The wheels rose perceptibly, but still failed to move forward. "Goddarnit! All the way!" For several seconds, the engine tempo remained as it was, then abruptly lessened. The captain's voice rattled the interphone; it had a sarcastic note. "Patroni, por favor, if I open my throttles all the way, this airplane will stand on its nose. Instead of a stranded 707, we shall both have a wrecked one." The maintenance chief had been studying the landing gear wheels, which had now settled back, and the ground around them. "It'll come out, I tell you! Ail it needs is the guts to pull full power.»«Look to your own guts!" the captain snapped back. "I am shutting the engines down." Patroni shouted into the interphone. "Keep those motors running; hold 'em at idle! I'm coming up!" Moving forward under the nose, be motioned urgently for the boarding ramp to be repositioned. But even as it
was being pushed into place, all four engines quieted and died. When he reached the cockpit, both pilots were unfastening their seat harnesses. Patroni said accusingly, "You chickened out!" The captain's reaction was surprisingly mild. "Es posible. Perhaps it is the only intelligent thing I have done tonight." He inquired formally, "Does your maintenance department accept this airplane?" "Okay." Patroni nodded. "We'll take it over." The first officer glanced at his watch and made an entry in a log. "When you have extricated this airplane, in whatever way," the A6reo-Mexican captain stated, "no doubt your company will be In touch with my company. Meanwhile, buenas noches." As the two pilots left, their heavy topcoats buttoned tightly at the neck, Joe Patroni made a swift, routine check of instruments and control settings. A minute or so later he followed the pilots down the outside ramp. The A6reo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, was waiting below. He nodded in the direction of the departing pilots, now hurrying toward one of the crew buses. "That was the same thing they done to me; not pulling enough power." He motioned gloomily toward the aircraft's main landing gear. "That's why she went in deep before; now she's dug herself in deeper still." It was what Joe Patroni had feared. With Ingram holding an electric lantern, he ducked under the fuselage to inspect the landing gear wheels; they were back in mud and slush again, almost a foot deeper than before. Patroni took the light and shone it under the wings; all four engine nacelles were disquietingly closer to the ground. "Nothing but a sky hook'll help her now," Ingram said. The maintenance chief considered the situation, then shook his head. "We got one more chance. We'll dig some more, bring the trenches down to where the wheels are now, then start the engines again. Only this time I'll drive." The wind and snow still howled around them. Shivering, Ingram acknowledged doubtfully, "I guess you're the doctor. But better you than me." Joe Patroni grinned. "If I don't blast her out, maybe I'll blow her apart." Ingram headed for the remaining crew bus to call out the men; the other bus had taken the A6reo-Mexican pilots to the terminal. Patroni calculated: there was another hour's work ahead before they could try moving the aircraft again. Therefore runway three zero would have to continue out of use for at least that long. He went to his radio-equipped pickup to report to air traffic control. 7The theory that an overburdened, exhausted mind can exercise its own safety valve by retreating into passive serniawareness was unknown to Inez Guerrero. Never-theless, for her, the theory had proved true. At this moment she was a mental walking-wounded case. The events of tonight affecting her personally, coupled with her accumulated distress and weariness of weeks, had proved a final crushing defeat. It prompted her mind-like an overloaded circuit-to switch off. The condition was temporary, not permanent, yet while it remained Inez Guerrero had forgotten where she was, or why. The mean, uncouth taxi driver who bad brought her to the airport had not helped. When bargaining downtown, he agreed to seven dollars as the price of the ride. Getting out, Inez proffered a ten dollar bill-almost the last money she had-expecting change. Mumbling that he bad no change but would get some, the cabbie drove
off. Inez waited for ten anxious minutes, watching the terminal clock which was nearing I I P. m.-the time of Flight Two's departure-before it dawned on her that the man had no intention of returning. She had noticed neither the taxi number nor the driver's name-something the driver had gambled on. Even if she had, Inez Guerrero was not the kind who complained to authority; the driver had correctly guessed that, too. Despite the initial slowness of her journey from downtown, she could have reached Flight Two before it left-but for the time spent waiting for the non-appearing change. As it was, she arrived at the departure gate to see the airplane taxiing away. Even then, to find out if her husband, D.O., was really aboard, Inez had the presence of mind to use the subterfuge which the Trans America inquiries girl, Miss Young, suggested on the telephone. A uniformed agent was just leaving gate forty-seven, where Flight Two had been. Inez accosted him. As Miss Young advised, Inez avoided asking a direct question, and made the statement, "My husband is on that flight which just left." She explained that she had missed seeing her husband, but wanted to be sure he was safely aboard. Inez unfolded the yellow time-payment contract which she bad discovered at home among D.O.'s shirts, and showed it to the Trans America agent. He barely glanced at it, then checked the papers he was holding. For a moment or two Inez wondered hopefully if she had made a mistake in presuming that D-0. was leaving on the flight; the idea of his going to Rome at all still seemed fantastic. Then the agent said, yes, there was a D. 0. Guerrero aboard Flight Two, and be, the agent, was sorry that Mrs. Guerrero had missed seeing her husband, but everything was in a mixup tonight because of the storm, and now if she would please excuse him … It was when the agent had gone and Inez realized that despite the press of people around her in the terminal, she was utterly alone, that she began to cry. At first the tears came slowly; then, as she remem– bered all that bad gone wrong, they streamed in great heaving sobs which shook her body. She cried for the past and for the present; for the home she had had and lost; for her children whom she could no longer keep with her; for D.O. who, despite his faults as a husband, and the failure to support his family, was at least familiar, but now'had deserted her. She wept for what she herself had been and had become; for the fact that she had no money, nowhere to go but to the mean, cockroach-infested rooms downtown, from which she would be evicted tomorrow, having nothing left-after the taxi ride and driver's theft-from the pathetically small amount with which she had hoped to stave off the landlord . . . she was not even sure if she bad enough small change to return downtown. She cried because her shoes still hurt her feet; for her clothes which were shabby and sodden; for her weariness, and because she had a cold and a fever which she could feel getting worse. She cried for herself and all others for whom every hope was gone. It was then, to avoid stares of people who were watching, that she began walking aimlessly through the terminal, still weeping as she went. Somewhere near that time, too, the defensive machinery of her mind took over, inducing a protective numbness, so that her sorrow persisted but its reasons, for a while, were mercifully blurred. Soon after, an airport policeman found her and, with a sensitivity for which police are not always credited, placed her in as obscure a comer as he could find while telephoning his superiors for instructions. Lieutenant Ordway happened to be nearby and dealt with the matter personally. It was he who decided that Inez Guerrero, though incoherent and upset, was harmless, and had ordered her taken to the airport general manager's office-the only place Ned Ordway could think of which was quiet, yet less intimidating than police headquarters. Inez had gone docilely, in an elevator and along a mezzanine, only half-knowing that she was being taken anywhere at all, and not caring; and after, had sat
quietly in a seat she was guided to, her body, if not her mind, grateful for the rest. She had been aware of people coming and going, and some had spoken, but she had brought neither the sight nor sound of them into focus, the effort seeming too much. But after a while, her resilience-which is another word for strength of the human spirit, which all possess, however burdened or humble-brought her back to a realization, even though vague, that she must move on, because life moved on, and always had and would, no matter how many defeats it wrought, or dreary or empty as it might seem. So Inez Guerrero stood up, still not sure where she was or how she had come there, but prepared to go. It was then that the Meadowood delegation, escorted by Lieutenant Ordway, entered the anteroom to Mel Bakersfeld's office, where Inez was. The delegation continued into the other room, then Ned Ordway had returned to speak with Inez Guerrero, and Mel observed the two of them togethet briefly before the door to his office closed. Inez, through her miasma of uncertainty, was also conscious of the big Negro policeman, whom she had a feeling she had seen somewhere before, quite recently, and he bad been kind then, as he was being kind now, leading her with quiet, not-quite-questions, so that he seemed to understand, without her ever saying so, that she had to return downtown and wasn't sure she had enough money for it. She started to fumble with her purse, intending to count what was there, but he stopped her. Then, with his back to the other room, he slipped three one-dollar bills into her hand, and came with her outside, pointing the way down to where, he said, she would find a bus, and added that what he had given her would be enough for the fare, with something over for wherever she had to go when she got to the city. The policeman bad gone then, returning in the direction from which he had come, and Inez did what she was told, going down some stairs; then almost at the big door through which she was to go for the bus, she had seen a familiar sight-a hot dog counter; and at that moment she realized how hungry and thirsty she was, on top of everything else. She had groped in her purse, and found thirty-five cents, and bought a hot dog, and coffee in a paper cup, and somehow the sight of those two very ordinary things was reassuring. Not far from the food counter, she found a seat and tucked herself into a corner. She wasn't sure how long ago that was but now, with the cofTee gone and the hot dog eaten, awareness which earlier had started to come back, was receding from her once more in a comfortable way. There was something comforting, too, about the crowds around her, the noises, and loudspeaker announcements. Twice Inez thought she heard her own name on the loudspeakers, but knew it was imagination and couldn't be true because no one would call her, or even know that she was here. She realized dimly that sometime soon she would have to move on, and knew that tonight especially it would entail an effort. But for a while, she thought, she would sit here quietly, where she was. 8With one exception, those summoned to the airport general manager's office on the administrative mezzanine arrived there quickly. The calls made to them-some by Mel Bakersfeld, others by Tanya Livingston-had stressed urgency, and the need to leave whatever they were doing. The District Transportation Manager of Trans America-Tanva's boss, Bert Weatherby-arrived first. Lieutenant Ordway, having started his policemen searching for Inez Guerrero, though still not knowing why, was close behind. For the time being Ordway had
abandoned to their own devices the sizable group of Meadowood residents, still milling in the main concourse, listening to Lawyer Freemantle expound their case before TV cameras. As the D.T.M., Weatherby, entered Mel's office through the anteroom door, he inquired briskly, "Mel, what's all this about?" "We're not sure, Bert, and we haven't a lot to go on yet, but there's a possibility there could be a bomb aboard your Flight Two." The D.T.M. looked searchingly at Tanya, but wasted no time in asking why she was there. His gaze swung back to Mel. "Let's hear what you know." Addressing both the D.T.M. and Ned Ordway, Mel summarized what was known or conjectured so far: the report of Customs Inspector Standish concerning the passenger with the attach6 case, clasped in a way which Standish-an experienced observer-believed to be suspicious; Tanya's identification of the man with the case as one D. 0. Guerrero, or perhaps Buerrero; the downtown agent's revelation that Guerrero checked in without any baggage other than the small case already mentioned; Guerrero's purchase at the airport of three hundred thousand dollars' worth of flight insurance, which he barely had enough money to pay for, so that he appeared to be setting out on a five-thousand mile journey, not only without so much as a change of clothing, but also without funds; and finally-perbaps coincidentally, perhaps not-Mrs. Inez Guerrero, sole beneficiary of her husband's flight insurance policy, had been wandering through the terminal, apparently in great distress. While Mel was speaking, Customs Inspector Harry Standish, still in uniform, came in, followed by Bunnie Vorobioff. Bunnie entered uncertainly, glancing questioningly around her at the unfamiliar people and surroundings. As the import of what Mel was saying sank in, she paled and appeared scared. The one non-arrival was the gate agent who had been in charge at gate forty-seven when Flight Two left. A staff supervisor whom Tanya had spoken to a few min– utes ago informed her that the agent was now off duty and on his way home. She gave instructions for a message to be left, and for the agent to check in by telephone as soon as he arrived. Tanya doubted if anything would be gained by bringing him back to the airport tonight; for one thing, she already knew that the agent did not remember Guerrero boarding. But someone else might want to question him by phone. "I called everyone here who's involved so far," Mel informed the D.T.M., "in case you or someone else have questions. What we have to decide, I think-and it's mainly your decision-is whether or not we have enough to warn your captain of Flight Two." Mel was reminded again of what he had temporarily pushed from mind: that the flight was commanded by his brother-inlaw, Vernon Demerest. Later, Mel knew, he might have to do some reconsidering about certain implications. But not yet. "I'm thinking now." The D.T.M. looked grim; he swung to Tanya. "Whatever we decide, I want Operations in on this. Find out if Royce Kettering is still on the base. If so, get him here fast." Captain Kettering was Trans America's chief pilot at Lincoln International; it was he who earlier tonight had test-flown aircraft N-731-TA, before-as Flight Two, The Golden Argosy-it took off for Rome. "Yes, sir," Tanya said. While she was on one telephone, another rang. Mel answered. It was the tower watch chief. "I have the report you wanted on Trans America Two." One of Mel's calls for a few minutes ago had been to air traffic control, requesting information on the flight's takeoff time and progress. "Go ahead.»«Takeoff was 11: 13 local time." Mel's eyes swung to a wall clock. It was now almost ten minutes after midnight; the flight had been airborne nearly an hour. The tower chief continued, "Chicago Center handed off the flight to Cleveland Center at 12:27 EST, Cleveland handed it to Toronto at 01:03 EST; that's seven
minutes ago. At the moment, Toronto Center reports the aircraft's position as near London, Ontario. I have more information-course, height, speed-if you want it.»«That's enough for now," Mel said. "Thanks.»«One other thing, Mr. Bakersfeld." The tower chief summarized Joe Patroni's latest bulletin about runway three zero; the runway would be out of use for at least another hour. Mel listened impatiently; at the moment, other things seemed more important. When he hung up, Mel repeated the information about Flight Two's position to the D.T.M. Tanya came off the other phone. She reported, "Operations found Captain Kettering. He's coming.»«That woman-the passenger's wife," the D.T.M. said. "What was her name?" Ned Ordway answered. "Inez Guerrero.»«Where is she?" "We don't know." The policeman explained that his men were searching the airport, although the woman might be gone. He added that city police headquarters had been alerted, and all buses from the airport to downtown were now being checked on arrival. "When she was here," Mel explained, "we had no idea. . ." The D.T.M. grunted. "We were all slow." He glanced at Tanya, then at Customs Inspector Standish, who so far had not spoken. The D.T.M., Tanya knew, was remembering ruefully his own instructions to "Forget it!" Now he informed her, "We'll have to tell the captain of the flight something. He's entitled to know as much as we do, even though so far we're only guessing." Tanya asked, "Shouldn't we send a description of Guerrero? Captain Demerest may want to have him identified without his knowing.»«If you do," Mel pointed out, "we can help. There are people here who've seen the man.»«All right," the D.T.M. acknowledged, "we'll work on that. Meanwhile, Tanya, call our dispatcher. Tell him there's an important message coming in a few minutes, and to get a Selcal circuit hooked into Flight Two. I want this kept private, not broadcast for everybody. At least, not yet." Tanya returned to the telephone. Met asked Bunnie, "Are you Miss Vorobioff?" As she nodded nervously, the eyes of the others turned to her. Automatically, those of the men dropped to Bunnie's capacious breasts; the D.T.M. seemed about to whistle, but changed his mind. Mel said, "You realize which man we're talking about?" "I … I'm not sure.»«It's a mari named D. 0. Guerrero. You sold him an insurance policy tonight, didn't you?" Bunnie nodded again. "Yes . "When you wrote the policy, did you get a good look at him?" She shook her head. "Not really." Her voice was low. She moistened her lips. Mel seemed surprised. "I thought on the phone . "There were many other people," Bunnie said defensively. "But you told me you remembered this one.»«It was someone else.»«And you don't recall the man Guerrero?" "No. 11Mel looked baffled. "Let me, Mr. Bakersfeld." Ned Ordway took a pace for-ward; he put his face near the girl's. "You're afraid of getting involved, aren't you?" Ordway's voice was a harsh, policeman's voice, not at all the gentle tone he used earlier tonight with Inez Guerrero. Bunnie flinched, but didn't answer. Ordway persisted, "Well, aren't you? Answer me.»«I don't know.»«Yes, you do! You're afraid to help anyone for fear of what it might do to you. I know your kind." Ordway spat out the words contemptuously. This was a savage, tough side of the lieutenant's nature which Mel had never seen before. "Now you hear me, baby. If it's trouble you're scared of, you're buying it right now. The
way to get out of trouble-if you can-is to answer questions. And answer fast! We're running out of time." Bunnie trembled. She had learned to fear police interrogation in the grim school of Eastern Europe. It was a conditioning never totally erased. Ordway had recognized the signs. "Miss Vorobioff," Mel said. "There are almost two hundred people aboard the airplane we're concerned with. They may be in great danger. Now, I'll ask you again. Did you get a good look at the man Guerrero?" Slowly, Bunnie nodded. "Yes.»«Describe him, please." She did so, haltingly at first, then with more confidence. While the others listened, a picture of D. 0. Guerrero emerged: gaunt and spindly; a pale, sallow face with protruding jaw; long scrawny neck; thin lips; a small sandy mustache; nervous hands with restless fingers. When she got down to it, Bunnie Vorobioff proved herself a keen observer. The D.T.M., now seated at Mel's desk, wrote the description, incorporating it with a message for Flight Two which lie was drafting. When Burmie came to the part about D. 0. Guerrero barely having enough money-and no Italian money; the man's nervous tension, the fumbling with dimes and pennies; his excitement on discovering a five-dollar bill in an inside pocket, the D.T.M. looked up with a mixture of disgust and horror. "My God! And you still issued a policy. Are you people mad?" "I thought . . ." Bunnie started to say. "You thought! But you didn't do anything, did you?" Her face drained and white, Bunnie Vorobioff shook her head. Mel reminded the D.T.M., "Bert, we're wasting time. 11 "I know, I know! Just the same The D.T.M. clenched the pencil he had been using. He muttered, "It isn't just her, or even the people who employ her. It's us –the airlmes; we're as much to blame. We agree with the pilots about airport flight insurance, but haven't the guts to say so. We let them do our dirty work. . ." Mel said tersely to Customs Inspector Standish, "Harry, is there anything you'd add to the description of Guerrero?" "No," Standish said. "I wasn't as near to him as this young lady, and she saw some things I didn't. But I did watch the way he held the case, as you know, and I'd say this: If what you think is in there really is, don't anyone try to grab that case away from him.»«So what do you suggest?" The Customs man shook his head. "I'm no expert, so I can't tell you; except, I guess you'd have to get it by some kind of trickery. But if it's a bomb, it has to be self-contained in the case, and that means somewhere there's a trigger, and the chances are it'll be the kind of trigger he can get to quickly. He's possessive about the case now. If someone tried to take it away, he'd figure he was found out and had nothing to lose." Standish added grin-fly, "A trigger finger can get mighty itchy.»«Of course," Mel said, "we still don't know if the man's an ordinary eccentric, and all he's got in there are his pajamas.»«If you're asking my opinion," the Customs inspector said, "I don't think so. I wish I did, because I've got a niece on that flight." Standish had been conjecturing unhappily: If anything went wrong, how in God's name would he break the news to his sister in Denver? He remembered his last sight of Judy: that sweet young girl, playing with the baby from the next seat. She had kissed him. Goodbye, Uncle Harry! Now, he wished desperately that he had been more definite, had acted more responsibly, about the man with the attach6 case. Well, Standish thought, though it might be late, at least he would be definite now. "I'd like to say something else." Tle eyes of the others swung to him. "I have to tell you this because we haven't time to waste on modesty: I'm a good judge of people, mostly on first sight, and usually I can smell the bad ones. It's
an instinct, and don't ask me how it works because I couldn't tcll you, except that in my job some of us get to be that way. I spotted that man tonight, and I said he was 'suspicious'; I used that word because I was thinking of smuggling, which is the way I'm trained. Now, knowing what we do-even little as it is-I'd make it stronger. The man Guerrero is dangerous." Standish eyed the Trans America D.T.M. "Mr. Weatherby-get that word 'dangerous' across to your people in the air.»«I intend to, Inspector." The D.T.M. looked up from his writing. Most of what Standish had been saying was already included in the message for Flight Two. Tanya, still on the telephone, was talking with Trans America's New York dispatcher by tie line. "Yes, it will be a long message. Will you put someone on to copy, please?" A sharp knock sounded on the office door and a tall man with a seamed, weatherworn face and sharp blue eyes came in from the anteroom. He carried a heavy topcoat and wore a blue serge suit which might have been a uniform, but wasn't. The newcomer nodded to Mel, but before either could speak, the D.T.M. cut in. "Royce, thanks for coming quickly. We seem to have some trouble." He held out the notepad on which he had been writing. Captain Kettering, the base chief pilot for Trans America, read the draft message carefully, his only reaction a tightening at the mouth as his eyes moved down the page. Like many others, including the D.T.M., it was unusual for the chief pilot to be at the airport this late at night. But exigencies of the three-day storm, with the need for frequent operating decisions, had kept him here. ne second telephone rang, cutting through the temporary silence. Mel answered it, then motioned to Ned Ordway who took the receiver. Captain Kettering finished reading. The D.T.M. asked, "Do you agree to sending that? We've dispatch standing by with a Selcal hook-up." Kettering nodded. "Yes, but I'd like you to add: 'Suggest return or alternate landing at captain's discretion,' and have the dispatcher give them the latest weather.»«Of course," The D.T.M. penciled in the extra words, then passed the pad to Tanya. She began dictating the message. Captain Kettering glanced at the others in the room. "Is that everything we know?" "Yes," Mel said. "It is, so far.»«We may know more soon," Lieutenant Ordway said. He had returned from the telephone. "We just found Guerrero's wife."The message from D.T.M. Lincoln International was addressed, CAPTAIN, 'FRANS AMERICA FLIGHT Two, and began:UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS THAT MALE TOURIST PASSEN(;ER D. 0. GUERRERO A130ARD YOUR FLIGHT MAY HAVE EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN HIS POSSESSION. PASSENGER WITH NO LUGGAGE AND APPARENTLY WITHOUT FUNDS INSURED SELF HFAVILY BEFORE DEPARTURE. WAS OBSERVED BEHAVING SUSPICIOUSLY WITH ATTACHE TYPE BRIEFCASE CARRIED AS HAND BAGGAGE. DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS …As the D.T.M. had foreseen, it took several minutes for a connection to be established, through company radio, with Flight Two. Since the earlier Selcal message to the flight, concerning its stowaway Mrs. Ada Quonsett, the aircraft had moved out of Trans America's Cleveland dispatch area into that of New York . Now, company messages must be passed through a New York dispatcher for relaying to the flight. The message, as Tanya dictated it, was being typed by a girl clerk in New York . Alongside the clerk a Trans America dispatcher read the first few lines, then reached for a direct phone to an operator at ARINC-a private communications network maintained cooperatively by all major airlines.
The ARINC operator-at another location in New York-set up a second circuit between himself and Trans America dispatch, then punched into a transmitter keyboard a four-letter code, AGFG, specifically assigned to aircraft N-731-TA. Once more, like a telephone call to a single number on a party line, an alerting signal would be received aboard Flight Two only. A few moments later the voice of Captain Vernon Demerest, responding from high above Ontario, Canada, was audible in New York. "This is Trans America Two answering Selcal.»«Trans America Two, this is New York dispatch. We have an important message. Advise when ready to copy. A brief' pause, then Demerest again. "Okay, New York. Go ahead.»«CAPTAIN, FLIGHT Two," the dispatcher began. "UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS…"Inez had still been sitting quietly, in her comer near the food counter, when she felt her shoulder shaken. "Inez Guerrero! Are you Mrs. Guerrero?" She looked up. It took several seconds to cotlect her thoughts, which had been vague and drifting, but she realized that it was a policeman who was standing over her. He shook her again and repeated the question. Inez managed to nod. She became aware that this was a different policeman from the earlier one. This one was white, and neither as gentle nor as softly spoken as the other. "Let's move it, lady!" The policeman tightened his grip on her shoulder in a way which hurt, and pulled her abruptly to her feet. "You hear me?-let's go! They're screamin' for you upstairs, and every cop in the joint's bin searchin' for you." Ten minutes later, in Mel's office, Inez was the pivot of attention. She occupied a chair in the room's center to which she had been guided on arrival. Lieutenant Ordway faced her. The policeman who had escorted Inez in was gone. The others who had been present earlier-Mel, Tanya, Customs Inspector Standish, Bunnie Vorobioff, the Trans America D.T.M., Weatherby, and the chief pilot, Captain Kettering, were ranged about the room. All had remained at Mel's request. "Mrs. Guerrero," Ned Ordway said. "Why is your husband going to Rome?" Inez stared back bleakly and didn't answer. The policeman's voice sharpened, though not unkindly. "Mrs. Guerrero, please listen to me carefully. There are some important questions which I have to ask. They concern your husband, and I need your help. Do you understand?" "I … I'm not sure.»«You don't have to be sure about why I'm asking the questions. There'll be time for that later. What I want you to do is help me by answering. Will you? Please." The D.T.M. cut in urgently. "Lieutenant, we haven't got all night. That air-plane is moving away from us at six hundred miles an hour. If we have to, let's get tough.»«Leave this to me, Mr. Weatherby," Ordway said sharply. "If we all start shouting, it'll take a lot more time to get a great deal less." The D.T.M. continued to look impatient, but kept quiet. "Inez," Ordway said; is it okay if I call you Inez?" She nodded. "Inez, will you answer my questions?" "Yes … if I can.»«Why is your husband going to Rome?" Her voice was strained, barely more than a whisper. "I don't know.»«Do you have friends there; relatives?" "No . . . There is a distant cousin in Milan, but we have never seen him.»«Do vour husband and the cousin correspond?" "No.;,
"Can you think of any reason why your husband would go to visit the cousin-suddenly?" "There is no reason." Tanya interjected, "In any case, Lieutenant, if anyone was going to Milan they wouldn't use our Rome flight. They'd fly Alitalia, which is direct and cbeaper-and Alitalia has a flight tonight, too." Ordway nodded. "We can probably rule out the cousin." He asked Inez, "Does your husband have business in Italy?" She shook her head. "What is your husband's business?" "He is . . . was … a contractor.»«What kind of contractor?" Slowly but perceptibly, Inez's grasp of things was coming back. "He built buildings, houses, developments.»«You said 'was.' Why isn't he a contractor now?" "Things … went wrong.»«You mean financially?" "Yes, but … why are you asking?" "Please believe me, Inez," Ordway said, "I've a good reason. It concerns your husband's safety, as well as others'. Will you take my word?" She looked up. Her eyes met his. "All right.»«Is your husband in financial trouble now?" She hesitated only briefly. "Yes.»«Bad trouble?" Inez nodded slowly. "Is he broke? In debt?" Again a whisper." Yes.»«Then where did be get money for his fare to Rome?" "I think . . ." Inez started to say something about her ring which D.O. had pawned, then remembered the Trans America Airlines time payment contract. She took the now-creased yellow sheet from her purse and gave it to Ordway who glanced over it. The D.T.M. joined him. "It's Made out to 'Buerrero,' " the D.T.M. said. "Though the signature could be anything." Tanya pointed out, "Buerrero is the name we had at first on the flight manifest." Ned Ordway shook his head. "It isn't important now, but it's an old trick if anyone has a lousy credit rating. They use a wrong first letter so the bad rating won't show up in inquiry-at least, not in a hurry. Later, if the mistake's discovered, it can be blamed on whoever filled out the form." Ordway swung sternly back to Inez. He had the yellow printed sheet in hand. "Why did you agree to this when you knew your husband was defrauding?" She protested, "I didn't know.»«Then how is it you have this paper now?" Haltingly, she related how she had found it earlier this evening, and had come to the airport, hoping to intercept her husband before departure. "So until tonight you had no idea that he was going? ««No, sir.»«Anywhere at all?" Inez shook her head. "Even now, can you think of any reason for him going?" She looked bewildered. "No.»«Does your husband ever do irrational things?" Inez hesitated. "Well," Ordway said, "does he?" "Sometimes, lately . . .»«He has been irrational?" A whisper. "Yes.»«ViolentT' Reluctantly, Inez nodded. "Your husband was carrying a case tonight," Ordway said quietly. "A small attach6 case, and he seemed specialty cautious about it. Have you any idea what might be inside?" "No, sir.»«Inez, you said your husband was a contractor-a building ~ontractor. In the course of his work did he ever use explosives?" The quc,~tion had been put so casually and without preamble, that those listening seemed scarcely aware it
had been asked. But as its import dawned, there was a sudden tenseness in the room. "Oh, yes," Inez said. "Often." Ordway paused perceptibly before asking, "Does your husband know a lot about explosives?" "I think so. He always liked using them. But Abruptly, she stopped. "But what, Inez?" Suddenly there was a nervousness to Inez Guerrero's speech which had not been there before. "But . . . he handles them very carefully." Her eyes moved around the room. "Please … what is this about?" Ordway said softly, "You have an idea, Inez; haven't you?" When she didn't answer, almost;with indifference he asked, "Where are you living?" She gave the address of the South Side apartment and he wrote it down. "Is that where your husband was this afternoon; earlier this evening?" Thoroughly frightened now, she nodded. Ordway turned to Tanya. Without raising his voice, he asked, "Get a line open, please, to police headquarters downtown; this extension"-he scribbled a number on a pad. "Ask them to hold." Tanya went quickly to Mel's desk. Ordway asked Inez, "Did your husband have any explosives in the apartment?" As she hesitated, he bore in with sudden toughness. "You've told the truth so far; don't lie to me now! Did he?" "Yes. 1)"What kind of explosives?" "Some dynamite . . . and caps . . . They were left over.»«From his contracting work?" "Yes. 11"Did he ever say anything about them? Give a reason for keeping them?" Inez shook her head. "Only, that . . . if you knew how to handle them . . . they were safe.»«Where were the explosives kept?" "Just in a drawer.»«In a drawer where?" "The bedroom." An expression of sudden shock crossed Inez Guerrero's face. Ordway spotted it. "You thought of something then! What was it?" "Nothing!" Panic was in her eyes and voice. "Yes, you did!" Ned Ordway leaned for-ward, close to Inez, his face aggressive. For the second time in this room tonight he exhibited nothing of kindness; only the rough, tough savagery of a policeman who needed an answer and would get it. He shouted, "Don't try holding back or lying! It won't work. Tell me what it was you thought." As Inez whimpered: "Never mind that! Tell me!" "Tonight … I didn't think of it before . the things"The dynamite and caps?" "Yes.,' "You're wasting time! What about them?" Inez whispered, "They were gone!" Tanya said quietly, "I have your call, Lieutenant. They're holding." No one among the others spoke. Ordway nodded, his eyes still fixed on Inez. "Did you know that tonight, before your husband's flight took off, he insured himself heavily-very heavily indeednaming you as beneficiary?" "No, sir. I swear I don't know anything. . "I believe you," Ordway said. He stopped, considering, and when he spoke again his voice grated harshly. "Inez Guerrero, listen to me carefully. We believe your husband has those explosives, which you've told us about, with him tonight. We think be carried them onto that Rome flight, and, since there can be no other explanation for having them there, that he intends to destroy the airplane, killing himself and everyone else aboard. Now, I've one more question, and before you answer, think carefully, and remember those other people-innocent people, including children-who are on that flight, too. Inez, you know your husband; you know him as well as anyone alive. Could he … for the insurance money; for you … could he do what I have just said?"
Tears streamed down Inez Guerrero's face. She seemed near collapse, but nodded slowly. "Yes." Her voice was choked. "Yes, I think he could." Ned Ordway turned away. He took the telephone from Tanya and began speaking rapidly in a low tone. He gave information, interspersed with several requests. Once Ordway paused, swinging back to Inez Guerrero. "Your apartment is going to be searched, and we'll get a warrant if necessary. But it wiU be easier if you consent. Do you?" Inez nodded dully. "Okay," Ordway said into the telephone, "she agrees." A minute or so later he hung up. Ordway told the D.T.M. and Mel, "We'll collect the evidence in the apartment, if there's any there. Apart from that, at the moment, there isn't a lot we can do." The D.T.M. said grimly, "There isn't a lot any of us can do, except maybe pray." His face strained and gray, he began writing a new message for Flight Two. 9The hot hors d'oeuvres, which Captain Vernon Demerest had called for, had been served to the pilots of Flight Two. The appetizing assortment on a tray, brought by one of the stewardesses from the first class galley, was disappearing fast. Demerest grunted appreciatively as he bit into a lobster-and-mushroom tartlet garnished with Parmesan cheese. As usual, the stewardesses were pursuing their earnpaign to fatten the skinny young second officer, Cy Jordan. Surreptitiously they had slipped him a few extra hors d'oeuvres on a separate plate behind the two cap– tains and now, while Jordan fiddled with fuel crossfeed valves, his cheeks bulged with chicken livers in bacon. Soon, all three pilots, relaxing in turn in the dimly lighted cockpit, would be brought the same delectable entree and dessert which the airline served its first class passengers. The only things the passengers would get, which the crew did not, were table wine and champagne. Trans America, like most airlines, worked hard at providing an excellent cuisine aloft. There were some who argued that airlines-even international airlinesshould concern themselves solely with transportation, gear their in-flight service to commuter standards, and dispense with frills, including meals of any higher quality than a box lunch. Others, however, believed that too much of modem travel had become established at box lunch level, and welcomed the touch of style and elegance which good airborne meals provided. Airlines received remarkably few complaints about food service. Most passengers-tourist and first class-welcomed the meals as a diversion and consumed them zestfully. Vernon Demerest, searching out with his tongue the last succulent particles of lobster, was thinking much the same thing. At that moment the Selcal call chime sounded loudly in the cockpit and the radio panel warning light flashed on. Anson Harris's eyebrows went up. A single call on Selcal was out of the ordinary; two within less than an hour were exceptional. "What we need," Cy Jordan said from behind, "is an unlisted number." Demerest reached out to switch radios. "I'll get it." After the mutual identification between Flight Two and New York dispatch, Vernon Demerest began writing on a message pad under a hooded light. The message was from D.T.M. Lincoln International, and began: UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS . . . As the wording progressed, Demerest's features, in the light's reflection, tautened. At the end he acknowledged briefly and signed off without comment. Dernerest handed the message pad to Anson Harris, who read it, leaning toward a light beside him. Harris
whistled softly. He passed the pad over his shoulder to Cy Jordan. The Selcal message ended: SUGGEST RETURN OR ALTERNATE LANDING AT CAPTAIN'S DISCRETION. As both captains knew, there was a question of command to be decided. Although Anson Harris had been flying tonight as captain, with Demerest performing first officer duty, Vernon Demerest-as check pilot-had overriding authority if he chose to exercise it. Now, in response to Harris's questioning glance, Demcrest said brusquely, "You're in the left seat. What are we waiting for?" Harris considered only briefly, then announced, "We'll turn back, but making a wide slow turn; that way, passengers shouldn't notice. Then we'll have Gwen Meighen locate this guy they're worried about, because it's a sure thing one of us can't show up in the cabin, or we'll alert him." He shrugged. "After that, I guess we play it by ear.»«Okay," Demerest assented. "You get us faced around; I'll handle the cabin end." He depressed the stewardess call button, using a three-ring code to summon Gwen. On a radio frequency he had been using earlier, Anson Harris called air route control. He announced laconically, "This is Trans America Two. We seem to have a problem here. Request clearance back to Lincoln, and radar vector from present position to Lincoln." Harris's swift reasoning had already ruled out landing at an alternate air-port. Ottawa, Toronto, and Detroit, they had been informed at briefing, were closed to air traffic because of the storm. Besides, to deal with the man they were concerned about back in the cabin, the crew of Flight Two needed time. Returning to Lincoln International would provide it. He had no doubt that Demerest had reached the same conclusion. From Toronto Air Route Center, more than six miles below, a controller's voice responded. "Trans America Two, Roger." A brief pause, then: "You may begin a left turn now to heading two seven zero. Stand by for an altitude change.»«Roger, Toronto. We are commencing the turn. We'd like to make it wide and gradual.»«Trans America Two. A wide turn approved." The exchange was low key, as such exchanges usually were. Both in the air and on the ground there was mutual awareness that most would be gained by calm, least by dramatics or excitement. By the nature of Flight Two's request, the ground controller was instantly aware that an emergency-real or potential-existed. Jetliners, in flight at cruising altitude, did not abruptly reverse course without a major reason. But the controller also knew that if and when the captain was ready, he would officially declare an emergency and report its cause. Until then, the controller would not waste the time of the crew-undoubtedly occupied with urgent business' of their own-by asking needless questions. Whatever help was sought from air route control, however, would be given without query, and as speedily as possible. Even now, on the ground, procedural wheels were turning. At Toronto Air Route Center, located in a handsome modem building some fourteen miles beyond the city limits, the controller receiving Flight Two's transmission had summoned a supervisor. The supervisor was liaising with other sectors, clearing a path ahead of Flight Two, as well as altitudes immediately below-the last as a precaution. Cleveland Center, which earlier had passed the flight to Toronto Center and now would receive it back, had been alerted also. Chicago Center, which would take over from Cleveland, was being notified. On the flight deck of Flight Two, a new air route control message was coming in. "Begin descent to flight level two eight zero. Report leaving flight level three three zero." Anson Harris acknowledged. "Toronto Center, this is Trans America Two. We are beginning descent now." On Harris's orders, Second Officer Jordan was re-porting to Trans America dispatch, by company radio, the decision to return. The door from the forward cabin opened. Gwen Meighen came in. "Listen," she said, "if it's more hors d'oeuvres, I'm sorry, but you can't have them. In case you hadn't noticed, we happen to have a few passengers aboard.»«I'll deal with the insubordination later," Demerest said. "Right now"-lie mimicked Gwen's English accent – we've got a spot o' bother." Superficially, little had changed on the flight deck since a few moments ago when the message from D.T.M. Lincoln had come in. Yet, subtly, the relaxed mood prevailing earlier had vanished. Despite their studied composure, the three-man crew was all-professional and sharp, their minds at peak acuity, each sensing the adjustment in the other two. It was to achieve such moments, responsively and quickly, that years of training and experience marked the long route to airline captaincy. Flying itself-controlling an airplane-was not a difficult achievement; what commercial pflots were paid high salaries for was their reserve of resourcefulness, airmanship, and general aviation wisdom. Demerest, Harris, and-to a lesser extent-Cy Jordan, were summoning their reserves now. The situation aboard Flight Two was not yet critical; with luck, it might not be critical at all. But if a crisis arose, mentally the crew was ready. "I want you to locate a passenger," Demerest told Gwen. "He isn't to know that you're looking for him. We have a description here. You'd better read the whole thing." He handed her the pad with the Selcal message. She moved nearer, holding it under the hooded light beside him. As the aircraft rolled slightly, Gwen's hand brushed Vernon Demerest's shoulder. He was conscious of her closeness and a faint famfliar perfume. Glancing sideways, he could see Gwen's profile in the semidarkness. Her expression as she read was serious, but not dismayed; it reminded him of what he had admired so much earlier this evening-her strength in no way less– ening her femininity. In a swift, fleeting second he remembered that twice tonight Gwen had declared she loved him. lie had wondered then: had he ever truly been in love himself? When you kept tight rein on personal emotions, you were never absolutely sure. But at this moment, instinct told him, his feeling about Gwen was the closest to loving he would ever know. Gwen was reading the message again, more slowly. Momentarily he felt a savage anger at this new circurnstance which was contriving to delay their planshis own and Gwen's-for Naples. Then he checked himself. This was a moment for professionalism only. Besides, what was happening now would merely mean delay, perhaps for a full twenty-four hours after their return to Lincoln; but eventually the flight would go. It did not occur to him that the bomb threat might not be disposed of quickly, or that it would fail to end as tamely as most others. Alongside Demerest, Anson Harris was still holding the aircraft in its gentle turn, using only the slightest amount of hank. It was a perfect turn, exactly executed, as demonstrated by each pilot's needle and ball indicator-the granddaddy of aviation flight instruments, still used on modern jets, as it was used in Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis, and airplanes long before. The needle was tilted, the ball dead center. But only compass and gyro betrayed the extent of the turn-that Flight Two was coming around a hundred and eighty degrees in course. Harris had declared that passengers would be unaware of the course reversal, and be would be right-unless someone, peering through a cabin window, happened to be familiar with positions of stars and moon in relation to westerly and easterly courses. Then they would observe the change, but that was a chance which had to be taken; fortunately, the ground being obscured by cloud meant that no one could see and identify cities. Now Harris was beginning to lose height also, the aircraft's nose lowered slightly, with throttles pulled back the barest amount, so that the note of engines would change no more than was usual during any flight. Harris was
concentrating, flying with textbook precision, ignoring Gwen and Demerest. Gwen handed the message pad back. "What I want you to do," Demerest instructed her, "is go back and locate this man. See if there's any sign of the bag, and whether there's a good chance of getting it away from him. You realize that one of us from here can't go back-at least for now-in case we scare him.»«Yes," Gwen said. "I understand that. But I don't need to go either.»«Why?" She said quietly, "I know where he is already. In seat fourteen-A." Vernon Demerest regarded her searchingly. "I don't have to tell you that this is important. If you've any doubt, go back and make sure.»«I haven't any doubt." Half an hour or so ago, Gwen explained, after serving dinners in first class, she had gone aft into the tourist section to help out there. One of the passengers-in a window seat on the left-had been dozing. When Gwen spoke to him he awakened instantly. He was nursing a small attach6 case on his knees and Gwen sua-,ested that she take it, or that he put it down, while having dinner. The passenger refused. He continued to hold the case where it was, and she noticed that he clasped it as if it were important. Later, instead of letting down the folding table from the back of the seat ahead, he used the case. still held on his lap, to support his dinner tray. Accustomed to passengers' peculiarities, Gwen thought no more of it, though she remembered the man well. The description in the message fitted him exactly. "Another reason I remember is that he's sitting right alongside the old lady stowaway.»«He's in a window seat, you say?" "Yes. 11 "That makes it harder-to reach across and grab." Demerest was remembering the portion of the D.T.M.'s message: IF SUPPOSITION TRUE, LIKELY THAT TRIGGER FOR EXPLOSIVES WILL BE ON OUTSIDE OF CASE AND EASILY REACHABLE. THEREFORE USE EXTREME CAUTION 3% AIRPORTIN ATTEMPTING TO SEIZE CASE FORCIBLY. He guessed that Gwen, too, was thinking of that warning. For the fiist time a feeling, not of fear but doubt, intruded on his reasoning. Fear might come later, but not yet. Was there a possibility that this bomb scare might prove to be more than a scare? Vernon Demerest had thought and talked of this kind of situation often enough, yet could never really believe it would happen to himself. Anson Harris was easing out of the turn as gently as he had gone into it. They were now headed around completely. The Selcal chime sounded again. Demerest motioned to Cy Jordan, who switched radios and answered, then began copying down a message. Anson Harris was talking once more with Toronto Air Route Center. "I wonder," Vernon Demerest said to Gwen, "if there's any chance of getting those other two passengers alongside Guerrero out of their seats. That way he'd be left there, in the three-seat section, on his own. Then maybe one of us could come from behind, lean over and grab.»«He'd suspect," Gwen said emphatically. "I'm sure he would. He's edgy now. The moment we got those other people out, whatever excuse we used, he'd know something was wrong and he'd be watching and waiting." The second officer passed over the Selcal message he had been copying. It was from D.T.M. Lincoln. Using the hooded light, Gwen and Demerest read it together.NEW INFORMATION INDICATES EARLIER POSSIBILITY OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN POSSESSION OF PASSENGER GUERRERO IS NOW STRONG PROBABILITY REPEAT STRONG PROBABILITY. PASSENGER BELIEVED MENTALLY DISTURBED, DESPERATE. REPEAT PREVIOUS WARNING TO APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION. GOOD LUCK."I like that last bit," Cy Jordan said. "That's real nice, wishing us that."
Dernerest said brusquely, "Shut up!" For several seconds-apart from routine flight deck sounds-there was silence. "If there were some way," Dernerest said slowly, some way we could trick him into letting go of that case. AR we'd need would be a few seconds to have our hands on it, then get it clear away . if we were quick, two seconds would be enough." Gwen pointed out, "He wouldn't even put it down . . . "I know! I know! I'm thinking, that's all." He stopped. "Let's go over it again. There are two passengers between Guerrero and the aisle. One of them . . .»«One of them is a man; he has the aisle seat. In the middle is the old lady, Mrs. Quonsett. Then Guerrero.»«So grandma's right beside Guerrero; right alongside the case.»«Yes, but how does it help? Even if we could let her know, she couldn't possibly Dernerest said sharply, "You haven't said anything to her yet? She doesn't know we're on to her?" "No. You told me not to.»«Just wanted to be sure." Again they were silent. Vernon Dernerest concentrated, thinking, weighing possibilities. At length he said carefully, "I have an idea. It may not work, but at the moment it's the best we have. Now listen, while I tell you exactly what to do."In the tourist section of Flight Two most passengers had finished dinner, and stewardesses were briskly removing trays. The meal service had gone faster than usual tonight. One reason was that due to the delayed takeoff, some passengers had eaten in the terminal and now, because of the lateness of the hour, they had either declined dinner or merely nibbled at it. At the three-seat unit where Mrs. Ada Quonsett was still chatting with her new friend, the oboe player, one of the tourist cabin stewardesses-a pert young blonde –asked, "Have you finished with your trays?" "Yes, I have, miss," the oboist said. Mrs. Quonsett smiled warmly. "Thank you, my dear; you may take mine. It was very nice." The dour man on Mrs. Quonsett's left surrendered his tray without comment. It was only then that the little old lady from San Diego became aware of the other stewardess standing in the aisle. She was one whom Mrs. Quonsett had observed several times previously, and appeared to be in charge of the other girls. She had deep black hair, an attractive, high-cheekboned face, and strong dark eyes which at the moment were focused, directly and coolly, on Ada Quonsett. "Pardon me, madam. May I see your ticket?" "My ticket? Why, of course." Mrs. Quonsett affected surprise, though she guessed immediately what lay behind the request. Obviously her stowaway status was either suspected or known. But she had never given up easily, and even now her wits were working. A question was: how much did this girl know? Mrs. Quonsett opened her purse and pretended to search among its papers. "I know I had it, my dear. It must be here somewhere." She glanced up, her expression innocent. "That is, unless the ticket man took it when I came aboard. Perhaps he kept it and I didn't notice.»«No," Gwen Meighen said, "he wouldn't have. If it was a round-trip ticket, you'd be holding a return flight coupon. And if it was one-way, you'd still have the ticket stub and boarding folder.»«Well, it certainly seems strangeMrs. Quonsett continued fumbling in her purse. Gwen inquired coldly, "Shall I look?" From the beginning of their exchange, she had shown none of her customary friendliness. She added, "If there's a ticket in Your purse, I'll find it. If there isn't, it will save us both wasting time.»«Certainly not," Mrs. Ouonsett said severely. Then, relenting: "I realize you mean no harm, my dear, but I have private papers here. You, being English, should respect privacy. You are English, aren't you?" AIRPORT ~ 399"Whether I am or not doesn't matter. At this moment we're talking about your ticket. That is, if you have one." Gwen's voice, pitched louder than usual, was audible several seats away. Heads of other passengers were turning. "Oh, I have a ticket. It's just a question of where it is." Mrs. Quonsett smiled engagingly. "About your being English, though, I could tell you were from the very first moment you spoke. So many English people –people like you, my dear-make our language sound delightful. It's such a pity so few of us Americans can do the same. My late husband always used to say . . .' : "Never mind what he said. What about your tickeff It was hard for Gwen to be as rude and unpleasant as she was being. In the ordinary way she would have dealt with this old woman firmly, yet remained friendly and good-natured; Gwen also had a reluctance to bully someone more than twice her own age. But before she left the flight deck, Vernon had been explicit in his instructions. Mrs. Ouonsett looked a little shocked. "I'm being patient with you, young lady. But when I do discover my ticket I shall certainly have something to say about your attitude . . .»«Will you really, Mrs. Quonsett?" Gwen saw the old woman start at the use of her name, and for the first time there was a weakening behind the prim faqade. Gwen persisted, "You are Ada Quonsett, aren't you?" The little old lady patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, then sighed. "Since you know I am, there's no point in denying it, is there?" "No, because we know all about you. You've got quite a record, Mrs. Quonsett." More passengers were watching and listening now; one or two had left their seats to move closer. Their expressions were sympathetic for the old lady, critical of Gwen. The man in the aisle seat, who had been talking with Mrs. Quonsett when Gwen arrived, shifted uncomfortably. "If there's some misunderstanding, perhaps I can help. . .»«There's no misunderstanding," Gwen said. "Are you traveling with this lady?" "No. 11"Then there's nothing you need concern yourself about, sir." So far, Gwen had not let herself look directly at the man seated farthest away, by the window, whom she knew to be Guerrero. Nor had he looked at her, though she could tell by the inclination of his head that he was listening intently to everything that was being said. Also without being obvious, she observed that be was still clasping the small attach6 case on his knees. At the thought of what the case might contain she experienced a sudden, icy fear. She felt herself tremble, with a pre– monition of something terrible to come. She wanted to run, return to the flight deck and tell Vernon to handle this himself. But she didn't, and the moment of weakness passed. "I said we know all about you, and we do," Gwen assured Mrs. Quonsett. "You were caught earlier today as a stowaway on one of our flights from Los Angeles. You were placed in custody, but you managed to slip away. Then, by lying, you got aboard this flight." The little old lady from San Diego said brightly, "If you know so much, or think you do, it won't do any good arguing about it." Well, she decided, it was no good worrying now. After all, she had expected to get caught; at least she hadn't been until she'd had an adventure and a good dinner. Besides, what did it matter? As the redheaded woman back at Lincoln admitted, airlines never prosecuted stowaways. She was curious, though, about what came next. "Are we going to turn back?" "You're not that important. When we land in Italy you'll be banded over to the authorities." Vernon Demerest had warned Gwen to let it be thought that Flight Two was proceeding on to Rome, certainly not to admit that they were already turned around and heading back. He also impressed on her that she must be rough with the old lady, which Gwen had not enjoyed. But it was necessary to make an impression on the passenger Guerrero, to carry out Demerest's next step.
Though Guerrero didn't know it-and if all went well, he would not know until too late to make any difference-this entire performance was solely for his benefit. "You're to come with me," Gwen instructed Mrs. Quonsett. "The captain has had a signal about you, and he has to make a report. Before he does, he wants to see you." She asked the man in the aisle seat, "Will you let this woman out, please?" For the first time the old lady looked nervous. "The captain wants me?" "Yes, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting." Hesitantly, Mrs. Quonsett released her seat belt. As the oboe player moved out, unhappily, to let her pass, she stepped uncertainly into the aisle. Taking her arm, Gwen propelled her for-ward, conscious of hostile glances atl around-directed at herself-as they went. Gwen resisted an impulse to turn, to see if the man with the case was watching too. "I'm Captain Demerest," Vernon Demerest said. "Please come in-as far for-ward as you can. Gwen, shut the door and let's see if we can squeeze everybody in." He smiled at Mrs. Quonsett. "I'm afraid they don't design flight decks for entertaining visitors." The old lady from San Diego peered toward him. After the bright lights of the passenger cabin from which she had just come, her eyes were not yet adjusted to the cockpit's semidarkness. All she could make out were shadowy figures, seated, surrounded by dozens of redly glowing dials. But there had been no mistaking the friendliness of the voice. Its effect and tone were far different from what she had braced herself to expec*t. Cy Jordan pushed an armrest upward on an empty crew seat behind Anson Harris. Gwen-gently, in contrast to her behavior of a few minutes ago-guided the old lady into the seat. There was still no turbulence outside, which made it easy to move around. Though losing height, they were still far above the storm, and despite the airplane's speed of rnore than five hundred miles an hour, it was riding easily as if on a calm, untroubled sea. "Mrs. Quonsett," Vernon Demerest said, "whatever happened outside just now, you can forget it. It's not the reason you were brought here." He asked Gwen, "Were you pretty rough with her?" "I'm afraid so.»«Miss Meighen was acting on my orders. I told her to do exactly what she did. We knew one particular person would be watching and listening. We wanted it to look good, to have a plausible reason for bringing you here." The big shadowy figure speaking from the right-hand seat was becoming clearer to Ada Quonsett now. From what she could see of his face, he seemed a kind man, she thought. At the moment, of course, she had no idea what he was talking about. She looked about her. It was all very interesting. She had never been on a ffight deck before. It was much more crowded and a smaller space than she expected. It was also warm, and the three men whom she could now see were all in shirtsleeves. This would certainly be something else to tell her daughter in New York-if she ever got there. "Grandma," the man who had introduced himself as the captain said, "do you get frightened easily?" It seemed an odd question, and she thought about it before answering. "Not easily, I think. I get nervous sometimes, though not as much as I used to. When you get older there isn't a lot left to be frightened of." The captain's eyes were fixed searchingly on her fare. "I've decided to tell you something, then ask for your help. We don't have too much time, so I'll make it fast. I suppose you've noticed the man sitting next to you, back in the cabin-on the window side.»«The skinny one, with the little mustache?" "Yes," Gwen said. "That's him." Mrs. Quonsett nodded. "He's a strange one. He won't talk to anybody, and he has a little case with him that he won't let go of. I think he's worried about something.»«We're worried, too," Vernon Demerest said quietly. "We've reason to believe that in that case he has a bomb. We want to get it away from him. That's why I need your help." One of the surprising things about being up here with the pilots, Ada Quonsett thought, was how quiet it was.
In the silence which followed what had just been said, she could hear a message coming in on an overhead speaker near where she was seated. "Trans America Two, this is Toronto Center. Your position is fifteen mdes east of KJeinburg beacon. Advise your flight level and intentions." The man in the other front seat, on the left, whose face she hadn't yet seen, was answering. "Toronto Center from Trans America Two. Leaving flight level two niner zero. Request continued slow descent until we advise. No change in our intentions to return for landing at Lincoln.»«Roger, Trans America. We are clearing traffic ahead of you. You may continue slow descent." A third man, at a little table to her right, facing still more dials, leaned across to the one who had been speaking. "I make it an hour and seventeen minutes in. That's using forecast winds, but if the front's moved faster than expected, it could be less.»«We are going back, aren't we?" Mrs. Quonsett found it hard to restrain the excitement in her voice. Demerest nodded. "But you're the only one who knows, besides ourselves. For the time being you must keep it a secret, and above all, Guerrero-that's the man with the case-mustn't find out." Ada Ouonsett thought breathlessly: was this really happening to her? It was all quite thrilling, like something on TV. It was a little frightening perhaps, but she decided not to think too much about that. The main thing was-she was here, a part of it all, hobnobbing with the captain, sharing secrets, and what would her daughter say about that? "Well, will you help us?" "Oh, of course. I expect you want me to see if I can get that case away . , .»«No!" Vernon Demerest swung farther around, leaning over the back of his seat for emphasis. He said sternly, "You must not so much as put your hands on that case, or even near it.»«If you say so," Mrs. Quonsett acknowledged meekly, "I won't.»«I do say so. And remember, it's important that Guerrero have no idea we know about his case or what's inside. Now, as I did with Miss Meighen a little while ago, I'm going to tell you exactly what to do when you go back to the cabin. Please listen carefully." When he had finished, the little old lady from San Diego permitted herself a small, brief smile. "Oh, yes; yes, I think I can do that." She was getting out of her seat, with Gwen about to open the flight deck door for them to go, when Demerest asked, "That flight from Los Angeles you stowed away on-they said you were trying to reach New York. Why?" She told him about being lonely sometimes on the West coast, and wanting to visit her married daughter in the east. "Grandma," Vernon Dernerest said, "if we pull this off I'll personally guarantee that not only will any trouble you're in be taken care of, but this airline will give you a ticket to New York, and back, first class." Mrs. Quonsett was so touched, she almost cried. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" For once she found it hard to speak. What a remarkable man, she thought; such a kind, dear man!Her genuine emotion as she was about to leave the flight deck helped Mrs. Quonsett in her progress through the first class compartment and then into the tourist cabin. With Gwen Meighen grasping her arm tightly and shoving her along, the old lady dabbed at her eyes with her lace handkerchief, giving a tearful, credible performance of acute distress. She reminded herself, almost gleefully beneath her tears, that it was her second performance tonight..The first, when she pretended to be ill, had been staged in the terminal for the young passenger agent, Peter Coakley. She had been convincing then, so why not now? The performance was sufficiently authentic for one passenger to ask Gwen heatedly, "Miss, whatever she's done, do you have to be so rough?" Gwen replied tartly, already aware that she was
within hearing of the man Guerrero, "Sir, please don't interfere." As they passed into the tourist cabin, Gwen closed the draw curtain in the door-way separating the two passenger sections. That was part of Vernon's plan. Looking back the way they had come, toward the front of the aircraft, Gwen could see the flight deck door slightly ajar. Behind it, she knew, Vernon was waiting, watching. As soon as the curtain between first class and tourist was closed, Vernon would move aft and stand behind it, watching through a chink which Gwen was careful to leave open. Then, when the proper moment came, he would fling the curtain aside and rush through swiftly. At the thought of what was going to happen within the next few minutes-whatever the outcome-once more an icy fear, a sense of premonition, came to Gwen. Once more she conquered it. Reminding herself of her responsibilities to the crew, and to the other passengers-who were oblivious of the drama being played out in their midst-she escorted Mrs. Quonsett the remaining distance to her seat. The passenger Guerrero glanced up quickly, then away. The small attach6 case, Gwen saw, was still in the same position on his knees, his hands holding it. The man from the aisle seat next to Mrs. Quonsett's-the oboe player-stood up as they approached. His expression sympathetic, he moved out to let the old lady in. Unobtrusively, Gwen moved in front of him, blocking his return. The aisle seat must remain unoccupied until Gwen moved out of the way. Gwen's eyes caught a flicker of movement through the chink she had left in the doorway curtain. Vernon Demerest was in position and ready. "Please!" Still standing in the aisle, Mrs. Ouonsett turned pleadingly, tearfully to Gwen. "I beg of youask the captain to reconsider. I don't want to be handed over to the Italian police . . ." Gwen said harshly, "You should have thought of that before. Besides, I don't tell the captain what to do.»«But you can ask him! He'll listen to you." D. 0. Guerrero turned his head, took in the scene, then looked away. Gwen seized the old lady's arm. "I'm telling you-get into that seat!" Ada Quonsett's voice became a wail. "All I'm asking is to be taken back. Hand me over there, not in a strange country!" From behind Gwen the oboe player protested, "Miss, can't you see the lady's upset?" Gwen snapped, "Please keep out of this. This woman has no business here at all. She's a stowaway." The oboist said indignantly, "I don't care what she is. She's still an old lady." Ignoring him, Gwen gave Mrs. Quonsett a shove which sent her staggering. "You heard me! Sit down and be quiet." Ada Quonsett dropped into her seat. She screamed, "You hurt me! You hurt me!" Several passengers were on their feet, protesting. D. 0. Guerrero continued to look straight ahead. His hands, Gwen saw, were still on the attacb6 case. Mrs. Quonsett wailed again. Gwen said coldly, "You're hysterical." Deliberately, hating what she had to do, she leaned into the section of seats and slapped Mrs. Quonsett hard across the face. The slap resounded through the cabin. Passengers gasped. Two other stewardesses appeared incredulous. The oboist seized Gwen's arm; hastily she shook herself free. What happened next occurred so swiftly that even those closest to the scene were uncertain of the sequence of events. Mrs. Quonsett, in her seat, turned to D. 0. Guerrero on her left. She appealed to him, "Sir, please help mel Help me!" His features rigid, he ignored her. Apparently overcome by grief and fear, she reached toward him, flinging her arms hystericafly around his neck. "Please, please!" Guerrero twisted his body away, trying to release
himself. He failed. Instead, Ada Quonsett wound her arms around his neck more tightly. "Oh, help me!" Red-faced and close to choking, D. 0. Guerrero put up both hands to wrench her away. As if in supplication, Ada Quonsett eased her grasp and seized his hands. At the same instant, Gwen Meighen leaned forward toward the inside seat. She reached out and in a single even movement-almost without haste-she grasped the attach6 case firmly and removed it from Guerrero's knees. A moment later the case was free and in the aisle. Between Guerrero and the case, Gwen and Ada Quonsett were a solid barrier. The curtain across the doorway from the first class cabin swept open. Vernon Demerest, tall and impressive in uniform, hurried through. His face showing relief, he held out his hand for the attach6 case. "Nice going, Gwen. Let me have it." With ordinary luck the incident-except for dealing with Guerrero later-would have ended there. That it did not was solely due to Marcus Rathbone. Rathbone, until that moment, was an unknown, unconsidered passenger, occupying seat fourteen-D across the aisle. Although others were unaware of him, he was a self-important, pompous man, constantly aware of himself. In the small Iowa town where he lived he was a minor merchant, known to his neighbors as a "knocker." Whatever others in his community did or proposed, Marcus Rathbone objected to. His objections, small and large, were legendary. They included the choice of books in the local library, a plan for a community antennae system, the needed disciplining of his son at school, and the color of paint for a civic building. Shortly before departing on his present trip he had organized the defeat of a proposed sign ordinance which would have beautified his town's main street. Despite his habitual "knocking," be had never been known to pro– pose a constructive idea. Another peculiarity was that Marcus Rathbone despised women, including his own wife. None of his ob– jections had ever been on their behalf. Consequently, the humiliation of Mrs. Ouonsett a moment earlier had not disturbed him, but Gwen Meighen's seizure of D. 0. Guerrero's attachd case did. To Marcus Rathbone this was officialdom in uniform –and a woman at thad-impinging on the rights of an ordinary traveler like himself. Indignantly, Rathbone rose from his seat, interposing himself between Gwen and Vernon Demerest. At the same instant, D. 0. Guerrero, flushed and mouthing incoherent words, scrambled free from his seat and the grasp of Ada Quonsett. As he reached the aisle, Marcus Rathbone seized the case from Gwen and –with a polite bow-held it out. Like a wild animal, with madness in his eyes, Guerrero grabbed it. Vernon Demerest flung himself forward, but too late. He tried to reach Guerrero, but the narrowness of the aisle and the intervening figures-Gwen, Rathbone, the oboe player-defeated him. D. 0. Guerrero had ducked around the others and was heading for the aircraft's rear. Other passengers, in seats, were scrambling to their feet. Demerest shouted desperately, "Stop that man! He has a bomb!" The shout produced screams, and an exodus from seats which had the effect of blocking the aisle still further. Only Gwen Meighen, scrambling, pushing, clawing her way aft, managed to stay close to Guerrero. At the end of the cabin-like an animal still, but this time comered-Guerrero turned. All that remained between him and the aircraft's tail were three rear toilets; light indicators showed that two were empty, one was occupied. His back to the toilets, Guerrero held the attach6 case forward in front of him, one hand on its carrying handle, the other on a loop of string now visible beneath the handle. In a strained voice, somewhere between a whisper and a snarl, he warned, "Stay where you are! Don't come closer!" Above the heads of the others, Vernon Demerest shouted again. "Guerrero ' listen to me! Do you hear me? Listen!" There was a second's silence in which no one moved,
the on1v sound the steady background whine of the plane's jet engines. Guerrero blinked, continuing to face the others, his eyes –roving and suspicious. "We know who you are," Demerest called out, "and we know what you intended. We know about the insurance and the bomb, and they know on the ground, too, so it means your insurance is no good. Do you under– stand?-your insurance is invalid, canceled, worthless. If you let off that bomb you'll kill yourself for nothing. No one-least of all your family-will gain. In fact, your family will lose because they'll be blamed and hounded. Listen to me! Think." A woman screamed. Still Guerrero hesitated. Vernon Dernerest urged, "Guerrero, let these people sit down. Then, if you like, we'll talk. You can ask me questions. I promise that until you're ready, no one will come close." Dernerest was calculating: If Guerrero's attention could be held long enough, the aisle might be cleared. After that, Dernerest would try to persuade Guerrero to hand over the case. If he refused, there was still a chance that Demerest could leap forward, throw himself bodily onto Guerrero and wrest the case free before the trigger could be used. It would be a tremendous risk, but there was nothing better. People were easing nervously back into their seats. "Now that I've told you what we know, Guerrero; now you know that it isn't any good going on, I'm asking you to give me that case." Dernerest tried to keep his tone reasonable, sensing it was important to keep talking. "If you do as I say, I give you my solemn word that no one in this airplane will harm you." D. 0. Guerrero's eyes mirrored fear. He moistened thin lips with his tongue. Gwen Meighen was closest to him. Dernerest said quietly, "Gwen, take it easy. Try to get in a seat," If he had to leap, he wanted no one in the way. Behind Guerrero the door of the occupied toflet opened. An owlish young man with thick glasses came out. He stopped, peering short-siglitedly. Obviously he had heard nothing of what was going on. Another passenger yelled, "Grab the guy with the case! He's got a bomb!" At the first "click" of the toilet door, Guerrero half turned. Now he lunged, thrusting the man with glasses aside, and entered the toilet which the newcomer had vacated. As Guerrero moved, Gwen Meigben moved too, remaining close behind him. Vernon Demerest, several yards away, was struggling fiercely aft, down the still crowded aisle. The toilet door was closing as Gwen reached it. She thrust a foot inside and shoved. Her foot stopped the door from closing, but the door refused to move. Despairing, as pain shot through her foot, she could feel Guerrero's weight against the other side. In D. 0. Guerrero's mind the last few minutes bad been a jumbled blur. He had not fully comprehended everything that had occurred, nor had he heard all that Demerest said. But one thing penetrated. He realized that like ~– many of his other grand designs, this one, too, had failed. Somewhere-as always happened with whatever he attempted-he had bungled. All his life had been a failure. With bitterness, he knew his death would be a failure too. His back was braced against the inside of the toilet door. He felt pressure on it, and knew that at any moment the pressure would increase so that be could no longer hold the door closed. Desperately be fumbled with the attach6 case, reaching for the string beneath the handle which would release the square of plastic, actuating the clothespin switch and detonating the dynamite inside. Even as he found the string and tugged, he wondered if the bomb be had made would be a failure also. In his last split second of life and comprehension, D. 0. Guerrero learned that it was not.10The explosion aboard Trans America Flight Two, The Golden Aryosy, was instantaneous, monstrous, and overwhelming. In the airplane's confined space it struck with the din of a hundred thunderclaps, a sheet of flame, and a blow like a giant sledge hammer. D. 0. Guerrero died instantly, his body, near the core of the explosion, disintegrating utterly. One moment he existed; the next, there were only a few small, bloody pieces of him left. The aircraft fuselage blew open. Gwen Meighen, who, next to Guerrero, was nearest the explosion, received its force in her face and chest. An instant after the dynamite charge ripped the aircraft skin, the cabin decompressed. With a second roar and tornado force, air inside the aircraft-until this moment maintained at normal pressure-swept through the ruptured fuselage to dissipate in the high altitude near-vacuum outside. Through the passenger cabins a dark engulfing cloud of dust surged toward the rear. With it, like litter in a maelstrom, went every loose object, light and heavy-papers, food trays, liquor bottles, coffeepots, hand luggage, clothing, passengers' belongings-atl whirling through the air as if impelled toward a cyclopean vacuum cleaner. Curtains tore away. Internal doors-flight deck, storage, and toilets –wrenched free from locks and hinges and were swept rearward with the rest, Several passengers were struck. Others, not strapped in their seats, clung to any handhold as the wind and suction drew them inexorably toward the rear. Throughout the aircraft, emergency compartments above each seat snapped open. Yellow oxygen masks came tumbling down, each mask connected by a short plastic tube to a central oxygen supply. Abruptly the suction lessened. The aircraft's interior was filled with mist and a savage, biting cold. Noise from engines and wind was overwhelming. Vernon Demerest, still in the aisle of the tourist cabin where he had held himself by instinctively seizing a seatback, roared, "Get on oxygen!" He grabbed a mask himself. Through knowledge and training, Demerest realized what most others did not: The air inside the cabin was now as rarefied as that outside, and insufficient to support life. Only fifteen seconds of full consciousness remained to everyone, unless oxygen was used at once from the aircraft's emergency system. Even in five seconds, without the aid of oxygen, a degree of lessened judgment would occur. In another five seconds a state of euphoria would make many decide not to bother with oxygen at all. They would lapse into unconsciousness, not caring. Airlines had long been urged, by those who understood the hazards of decompression, to make pre-flight announcements about oxygen equipment more definite than they were. Passengers should be told, it was argued: The instant an oxygen mask appears in front of you, grab it, stick your face into it, and ask questions after. If there is a real decompression, you haven't a single second to spare. If it's a false alarm, you can always take the mask ojff later; meanwhile it will do no harm. Pilots who took decompression tests were given a simple demonstration of the effect of oxygen lack at high altitudes. In a decompression tank, with an oxygen mask on, they were told to begin writing their signatures, and part way through the exercise their masks were removed. The signatures tailed off into a scrawl, or nothingness. Before unconsciousness occurred, the masks were put back on. The pilots found it hard to believe what they saw on the page before them. Yet airtine managements, theorizing that more definite oxygen advice might create alarm among passengers, persisted in the use of innocuous flight an– nouncements only. Smiling stewardesses, seeming either
bored or amused, casually demonstrated the equipment while an unseen voice-hurrying to get finished before takeoff-parroted phrases like: In the unlikely event . . . and . . . Government regulations require that we inform you. No mention was ever made of urgency, should the equipment be required for use. As a result, passengers became as indifferent to emergency oxygen facilities as airlines and their staffs appeared to be. The overhead boxes and monotonous, always-alike demonstrations were (passengers rea– soned) something dreamed up by a bunch of regulation-obsessed civil servants. (Yawn!) Obviously the whole thing was largely a charade, insisted on by the same kind of people who collected income taxes and disallowed expense accounts. So what the hell! Occasionally, on regular flights, oxygen mask housings opened accidentally, and masks dropped down in front of passengers. When this happened, most passengers stared curiously at the masks but made no attempt to put them on. Precisely that reaction-though the emergency was real-had occurred aboard Flight Two. Vernon Dernerest saw the reaction and in a flash of sudden anger remembered his own, and other pilots', criticisms of soft-pedaled oxygen announcements. But there was no time to shout another warning, nor even to think of Gwen, who might be dead or dying only a few feet away. Only one thing mattered: somehow to get back to the flight deck, and help save the airplane if he could. Breathing oxygen deeply, he planned his movement forward in the aircraft. Above every seat section in the tourist cabin, four oxygen masks had dropped-one for the occupant of each seat, plus a spare to be grabbed if necessary by anyone standing in the aisle. It was one of the spares which Demerest had seized and was using. But to reach the flight deck he must abandon this mask and use a portable one that would permit him to move forward freely. He knew that two portable oxygen cylinders were stowed, farther forward, in an overhead rack near the first class cabin bulkhead. If be could make it to the portable cylinders, either one would sustain him for the remaining distance from the bulkhead to the flight deck. He moved for-ward to the bulkhead one seat section at a time, using one spare hanging mask after another as he went. A couple of seat sections ahead, he could see that aff four masks were being used by seated passengers; the three seat occupants, including a teen-age girl, had one mask each; the fourth mask was being held by the teenager over the face of an infant on its mother's lap alongside. The girl seemed to have taken charge and was motioning to others near her what to do. Demerest swung toward the opposite side of the cabin, saw a spare mask hanging, and taking a deep breath of oxygen, he let go the one he had and reached for the other spare. He made it, and breathed deeply once again. He still had more than half the tourist cabin length to go. He had made one more move when he felt the aircraft roll sharply to the right, then dive steeply down. Demerest hung on. He knew that, for the moment, there was nothing he could do. What happened next was dependent on two things: how much damage the explosion had done, and the skill of Anson Harris, at the flight controls, alone.On the flight deck, the events of the last few seconds had occurred with even less warning than at the rear. After the departure of Gwen Meighen and Mrs. Quonsett, followed by Vernon Demerest, the two remaining crew members-Anson Harris and Second Officer Cy Jordan-had no knowledge of what was going on in the passenger cabins behind them until the dynamite blast rocked the aircraft, followed an instant later by explosive decompression. As in the passenger compartments, the cockpit filled with a thick, dark cloud of dust, almost immediately sucked out as the flight deck door smashed free from its lock and hinges, and flew outward. Everything loose on the flight deck was snatched up, to be carried back, joining the debris-laden whirlwind.
Under the flight engineer's table, a warning born began blaring intermittently. Over both front seats, bright yellow lights flashed on. Both born and lights were signals of dangerously low pressure. A fine mist-deathly cold-replaced the cloud of dust. Anson Harris felt his eardrums tighten painfully. But even before that, he had reacted instantly-the effect of training and experience of many years. On the long, uphill road to airline captaincy, pilots spent arduous hours in classrooms and simulators, studying and practicing airborne situations, both normal and emergency. The objective was to instill quick, correct reactions at all times. The simulators were located at important air bases and all major scheduled airlines had them. From outside, a simulator looked like the nose of an aircraft, with the rest of the fuselage chopped off; inside, was everything included in a normal flight deck. Once inside a simulator, pilots remained shut up for hours, imitating the precise conditions of a long distance flight. The effect, when the outside door was closed, was uncanny; even motion and noise were present, creating the physical effect of being airborne. All other conditions paralleled reality. A screen beyond the for-ward windows could conjure up airports and runways, enlarging or receding to simulate takeoff and landing. The only difference between a simulator flight deck and a genuine one was that the simulator never left the ground. Pilots in a simulator conversed with a nearby control room, as they would on radio in the air. Within the control room, skilled operators duplicated air traffic control procedures and other flight conditions. The operators could also feed in adverse situations, without warning, to pilots. These ranged through multiple engine failure, to fire, violent weather, electrical and fuel problems, explosive decompression, instrument malfunction, and other assorted unpleasantness. Even a crash could be reproduced; sometimes simulators were used in reverse to find out what bad caused one. Occasionally an operator would feed in several emergencies at once, causing pilots to emerge later, ex– hausted and sweat-drenched. Most pilots coped with such tests; the few who didn't had the fact noted in their records, were re-examined, and afterward watched carefully. The simulator sessions continued, several times a year, through every stage of a pilot's career until retirement. The result was: When a real emergency occurred, airline pilots knew exactly what to do, and did it, without fumbling or loss of precious time. It was one of many factors which made travel by scheduled airlines the safest means of transportation in human history. It had also conditioned Anson Harris to instant action, directed toward the salvation of Flight Two. In the drill for explosive decompression one rule was fundamentaclass="underline" the crew took care of themselves first. Vernon Demerest observed the rule; so did Anson Harris and Cy Jordan. They must be on oxygen at once-even ahead of passengers. Then, with full mental faculties assured, decisions could be made. Behind each pilot's seat a quick-don oxygen maskresembling a baseball catcher's mask-was hanging. As he had practiced countless times, Harris ripped off his radio headset, then reached over his shoulder for the mask. He tugged, so that a holding clip snapped open, and slapped the mask on. As well as a connection to the airplane's oxygen supply, it contained a microphone. For listening, now his headset was removed, Harris changed a selector, actuating a speaker overhead. Behind him, Cy Jordan, with identical swift movements, did the same. In another reflex movement, Anson Harris took care of passengers. Cabin oxygen systems worked automatically in event of pressure failure; but as a precautionin case they didn't-over the pilots' heads was an override switch. It ensured positive release of passenger masks and sent oxygen flowing into them. Harris flipped the switch. He dropped his right hand to the throttles, pulling all four off. Thz aircraft slowed. It must be slowed still more. Left of the throttles was a speed brake handle. Harris
pulled it fully ;oward him. Along the top surface of both wings, spoilers rose up, inducing drag, and causing further slowing. Cy Jordan silenced the warning horn. So far, all procedures had been automatic. Now, a moment for decision had arrived. It was essential that the aircraft seek a safer altitude below. From its present height of twenty-eight thousand feet, it must descend some three and a half miles to where the air was denser so that passengers and crew could breathe and survive without supplemental oxygen. The decision Harris had to make was-should the descent be slow, or a high-speed dive? Until the past year or two, the instruction to pilots in event of explosive decompression was: dive immediately. Tragically, however, the instruction had resulted in at least one aircraft breaking apart when a slower descent might have saved it. Nowadays, pilots were cautioned: Check for structural damage first. If the damage is bad, a dive may worsen it, so go down slowly. Yet that policy, too, had hazards. To Anson Harris, they were instantly apparent. Undoubtedly Flight Two bad sustained structural damage. The sudden decompression proved it, and the explosion which bad occur-red just before-though still less than a minute ago-might already have done great harm. In other circumstances, Harr-is would have sent Cy Jordan to the rear to learn how bad the damage was, but since Dernerest was gone, Jordan must stay. But however serious the structural damage, there was another factor, perhaps more cogent. The air temperature outside the aircraft was minus fifty degrees centigrade. Judging by the near-paralyzing cold which Harris felt, the inside temperature must also be near that. In such intense cold, no one without protective clothing could survive for more than minutes. So which was the lesser gamble-to freeze for sure, or take a cbance and go down fast? Making a decision which only later events could prove right or wrong, Harris called on interphone to Cy Jordan, "Warn air traffic control! We're diving!" At the same moment, Harris banked the aircraft steeply to the right and selected landing gear "down." Banking before the dive would have two effects: Passengers or stewardesses who were not strapped in seats, or who were standing, would be held where they were by centrifugal force; whereas, a straight dive would throw them to the ceiling. The turn would also head Flight Two away from the airway they had been using, andhopefully-other traffic below. Putting the landing gear down would further reduce forward speed, and make the dive steeper. On the overhead speaker, Harris could hear Cy Jordan's voice intoning a distress call. "Mayday, mayday. This is Trans America Two. Explosive decompression. We are diving, diving." Harris pushed the control yoke hard for-ward. Over his shoulder he shouted, "Ask for ten!" Cy Jordan added, "Request ten thousand feet." Anson Harris clicked a radar transponder switch to seventy-seven-a radar S-O-S. Now, on all monitoring screens on the ground, a double blossom signal would be seen, confirming both their distress and identity. They were going down fast, the altimeter unwinding like a clock with a wBd mainspring … Passing through twenty-six thousand feet . . . twenty-four . . . twentythree … Climb and descent meter showed eight thousand feet descent a minute . . . Toronto Air Route Center on the overhead speaker: "All altitudes below you are clear. Report your intentions when ready. We are standing by." . Harris had eased out of the turn, was diving straig ,ht ahead … No time to think about the cold; if they could get low enough fast enough, there might be survival-if the aircraft held together . . . Already Harris was aware of trouble with rudder control and elevators; rudder movement was stiff; stabi– lizer trim, not responding … Twenty-one thousand feet . . . twenty . . . nineteen . . . From the feel of the controls, the explosion had done damage to the tail; how bad, they would discover when he tried to pull out in a minute or less from now. It would be the moment of greatest strain. If anything critical gave way, they would continue plummeting in . . . Harris would have been glad of some help from the right seat, but it was too late
for Cy Jordan to move there. Besides, the second officer was needed where he was-shutting air inlets, throwing in all the beat they had, watching for fuel system damage or fire warnings … Eighteen thousand feet . . . seventeen . . . When they reached fourteen thousand, Harris decided, he would start pulling out of the dive, hoping to level at ten … Passing through fifteen thousand … fourteen … Begin easing out now! Controls were heavy, but responding . . . Harris pulled back hard on the control yoke. The dive was flattening, control surfaces holding, the aircraft coming out … Twelve thousand feet; descending more slowly now … eleven thousand . . . ten, five … ten! They were level! So far, everything had held together. Here, the normal air was breathable and would sustain life, extra oxygen not necessary. The outside air temperature gauge showed minus five centigrade-five degrees below freezing; still cold, but not the killing cold of altitudes above. From beginning to end, the dive had taken two and a half minutes. The overhead speakers came alive. "Trans America Two, this is Toronto Center. How are you doing?" Cy Jordan acknowledged. Anson Harris cut in. "Level at ten thousand, returning to heading two seven zero. We have structural damage due to explosion, extent unknown. Request weather and runway informationToronto, Detroit Metropolitan, and Lincoln." In his mind, Harris had an instant picture of airports large enough to accommodate the Boeing 707, and with the special landing requirements he would need. Vernon Demerest was clambering over the smashed flight deck door and other debris outside. Hurrying in, he slid into his seat on the fight side. "We missed you," Harris said. "Can we maintain control?" Harris nodded. "If the tail doesn't fall off, we may stay lucky." He reported the impcded rudder and stabilizer trim. "Somebody let off a firecracker back there?" "Something , like that. It's made a bloody great hole. I didn't stop to measure." Their casualness, both men knew, was on the surface only. Harris was still steadying the aircraft, seeking an even altitude and course. He said considerately, "It was a good scheme, Vernon. It could have worked.»«It could have, but it didn't." Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Get back in tourist. Check on damage, report by interphone. Then do all you can for the people. We'll need to know how many are hurt, and how badly." For the first time he permitted himself an anguished thought. "And find out about Gwen." The airport reports, which Anson Harris had asked for, were coming in from Toronto center: Toronto airport still closed; deep snow and drifts on all runways. Detroit Metropolitan-all runways closed to regular traffic, but plows will vacate runway three left if essential for emergency approach and landing; runway has five to six inches level snow, with ice beneath. Detroit visibility, six hundred feet in snow flurries. Lincoln In– ternational-all runways plowed and serviceable; runway three zero temporarily closed, due to obstruction. Lincoln visibility one mile; wind northwest, thirty knots, and gusting. Anson Harris told Demerest, "I don't intend to dump fuel." Demerest, understanding Harris's reasoning, nodded agreement. Assuming they could keep the airplane under control, any landing they made would be tricky and heavy, due to the large fuel load which in other circumstances would have carried them to Rome. Yet, in their present situation, to dump unwanted fuel could be an even greater hazard. The explosion and damage at the rear might have set up electrical short circuits, or metal friction, which even now could be producing sparks. When dumping fuel in flight, a single spark could turn an aircraft into a flaming holocaust. Both captains rationalized: better to avoid the fire risk and accept the penalty of a difficult landing. Yet the same decision meant that a landing at Detroit –the nearest large airport-could be attempted only in desperation. Because of their heavy weight, they would have to land fast, requiring every available foot of
runway and the last ounce of braking power. Runway three left-Detroit Metropolitan's longest, which they would need-had ice beneath snow, in the circumstances the worst possible combination. There was also the unknown factor-wherever Flight Two landed-of how limited their control might be, due to rudder and stabilizer trim problems, which they already knew about, though not their extent. For a landing, Lincoln International offered the best chance of safety. But Lincoln was at least an hour's flying time away. Their present speed-two hundred and fifty knots-was far slower than they had been moving at the higher altitude, and Anson Harris was holding the speed down, in the hope of avoiding further structural damage. Unfortunately, even that involved a penalty. At their present low level of ten thousand feet there was considerable buffeting and turbulence from the storm, now all around them instead of far below. The crucial question was: Could they remain in the air another hour? Despite everything that had happened, less than five minutes had passed since the explosion and explosive decompression. Air route control was asking again: "Trans America Two, advise your intentions." Vernon Dernerest replied, requesting a direct course for Detroit while the extent of damage was still being checked. Landing intentions, either at Detroit Metropolitan or elsewhere, would be notified within the next few minutes. "Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit has advised they are removing snowplows from runway three left. Until informed otherwise, they will prepare for an emergency landing." The intercom bell chimed and Dernerest answered. It was Cy Jordan calling from the rear, shouting to make himself heard above a roar of wind. "Captain, there's a great hole back here, about six feet wide behind the rear door. Most else around the galley and toilets is a shambles. But as far as I can see, everything's holding to– gether. The rudder power boost is blown to hell, but control cables look okay.»«What about control surfaces? Can you see anything?" "It looks like the skin is bulged into the stabilizer, which is why the stabilizer's jammed. Apart from that, all I can see outside are some holes and bad dents, I guess from debris blowing back. But nothing's hanging loose-at least, that shows. Most of the blast, I'd say, went sideways." It was this effect which D. 0. Guerrero had not allowed for. He had blundered and miscalculated from the beginning. He bungled the explosion, too. His greatest error was in failing to recognize that any explosion would be drawn outward and would largely dissipate, the moment the hull of a pressurized aircraft was pierced. Another error was in not realizing how stoutly a modem jetliner was built. In a passenger jet, structural and mechanical systems duplicated each other, so that no single malfunction or damage should result in destruction of the whole. An airliner could be destroyed by a bomb, but only if the bomb were detonated-either by plan or chance-in some vulnerable location. Guerrero made no such plan. Demerest queried Cy Jordan, "Can we stay in the air an hour?" "My guess is, the airplane can. I'm not sure about the passengers.»«How many are hurt?" "I can't say yet. I checked structural damage first, the way you said. But things don't look good." Dernerest ordered, "Stay there as long as you need to. Do what you can." He hesitated, dreading what the answer to his next question might be, then asked, "Have you seen any sign of Gwen?" He still didn't know whether or not Gwen had been sucked out with the initial blast. In the past it had happened to others, including stewardesses who were near the site of an explosive decompression, unprotected. And even if that had not happened, Gwen had still been closest to the detonated bomb.
Cy Jordan answered, "Gwen's here, but in pretty bad shape, I think. We've got about three doctors, and they're working on her and the others. I'll report when I can." Vernon Demerest replaced the interphone. Despite his last question and its answer, he was still denying himself the indulgence of private thoughts or personal emotion; there would be time for those later. Professional decisions, the safety of the air-plane and its complement, came first. He repeated to Anson Harris the gist of the second officer's report. Harris considered, weighing all factors. Vernon Dernerest had still given no indication of taking over direct command, and obviously approved of Harris's decisions so far, else he would have said so. Now, Demerest ap– peared to be leaving the decision about where to land to Harris also. Captain Dernerest-even in utmost crisis-was bohaving exactly as a check pilot should. "We'll try for Lincoln," Harris said. The safety of the aircraft was paramount; however bad conditions might be in the passenger cabin, they would have to hope that most people could manage to hold on. Demerest nodded acknowledgment and began notifying Toronto Center of the decision; in a few minutes, Cleveland Center would take them over. Demerest requested that Detroit Metropolitan still stand by in case of a sudden change of plan, though it wasn't likely. Lincoln International was to be alerted that Flight Two would require a straight-in emergency approach. "Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit and Lincoln are being advised." A change of course followed. They were nearing the western shore of Lake Huron, the U.S.Canadian border close. On the ground, both pilots knew, Flight Two was now the center of attention. Controllers and supervisors in contiguous air route centers would be working intensely, coordinating removal of all traffic from the aircraft's path, sectors ahead warned of their approach, and airways cleared. Any request they made would be acted on with first priority. As they crossed the border, Toronto Center signed off, adding to the final exchange, "Goodnight and good luck." Cleveland Air Route Center responded to their call a moment later. Glancing back toward the passenger cabins, through the gap where the flight deck door had been, Dernerest could see figures moving-though indistinctly, because immediately after the door had gone, Cy Jordan had dimmed the first class cabin lights to avoid reflection on the flight deck. It appeared, though, as if passengers were being ushered for-ward, indicating that someone in the rear had taken charge-presumably Cy Jordan, who should be reporting again at any moment. The cold was still biting, even on the flight deck; back there it must be colder still. Once more, with a second's anguish, Demcrest thought of Gwen, then ruthlessly cleared his mind, concentrating on what must be decided next. Though only minutes had elapsed since the decision to risk another hour in the air, the time to begin planning their approach and landing at Lincoln International was now. As Harris continued flying, Vernon Demerest selected approach and runway charts and spread them on his knees. Lincoln International was home base for both pilots, and they knew the airport-as well as runways and surrounding airspace-intimately. Safety and training, however, required that memory should be supplemented and checked. The charts confirmed what both already knew. For the high speed, heavy weight landing they must execute, the longest possible length of runway was required. Because of doubtful rudder control, the runway should be the widest, too. It must also be directly into wind which-the Lincoln forecast had said-was northwest at thirty knots, and gusting. Runway three zero answered all requirements. "We need three zero," Demerest said. Harris pointed out, "That last report said a temporary closin',Y, due to obstruction.»«I beard," Demerest growled. "The damn runway's
been blocked for hours, and all that's in the way is a stuck Mexican jet." He folded a Lincoln approach chart and clipped it to his control yoke, then exclaimed angrily, "Obstruction heU! We'U give 'ern fifty more minutes to pry it loose." As Demerest thumbed his mike button to inform air route control, Second Officer Cy Jordan-white-faced and shaken-returned to the flight deck. 11In the main terminal of Lincoln International, Lawyer Freemantle was puzzled. It was most peculiar, he thought, that no one in authority had yet objected to the big, increasingly noisy demonstration of Meadowood residents who, at this moment, were monopolizing a large segment of the central concourse. Earlier this evening, when EUiott Freemantle had asked the Negro police lieutenant for permission to hold a public censure meeting, he had been firmly refused. Yet here they were, with a curious crowd of spectators –and not a policeman in sight! Freemantle thought again: it didn't make sense. Yet what had happened was incredibly simple. After the interview with the airport general manager, Bakersfeld, the delegation, led by Elliott Freemantle, had returned from the administrative mezzanine to the main concourse. There, the TV crews, whom Freemantle had talked with on the way in, had set up their equipment. The remaining Meadowood residents-already at least five hundred strong, with more coming in-were gathering around the TV activity. One of the television men told him, "We're ready if you are, Mr. Freemantle." Two TV stations were represented, both planning separate film interviews for use tomorrow. With customary shrewdness, Freemantle had already inquired which TV shows the film was destined for, so that he could conduct himself accordingly. The first inter-view, he learned, was for a prime-time, popular show which liked controversy, liveliness, and even shock treatment. He was ready to supply all three. The TV interviewer, a handsome young man with a Ronald ReaGan haircut, asked, "Mr. Freemantle, why are you here?" "Because this airport is a den of thieves.»«Will you explain that?" "Certainly. The homeowners of Meadowood community are having thievery practiced on them. Thievery of their peace, their right to privacy, of their work-eamed rest, and of their sleep. Thievery of enjoyment of their leisure; thievery of their mental and physical health, and of their children's health and welfare. All these thinas –basic riohts under our Constitution-are being shamelessly stolen, without recompense or recognition, by the operators of Lincoln Air-port." The interviewer opened his mouth to smile, showing two rows of faultless teeth. "Counselor, those are fighting words.»«That's because my clients and I are in a fighting mood.»«Is that mood because of anything which has happened here tonight?" "Yes, sir, We have seen demonstrated the callous indifference of this airport's management to my clients' problems.»«Just what are your plans?" "In the courts-if necessary the highest court-we shall now seek closure of specific runways, even the entire airport during nighttime hours. In Europe, where they're more civilized about these things, Paris airport, for example, has a curfew. Failing that, we shall demand proper compensation for cruelly wronged homeowners."
"I assume that what you're doing at this Moment means you're also seeking public support.»«Yes, sir.»«Do you believe the public will support you?" "If they don't, I invite them to spend twenty-four hours living in Meadowood-providing their eardnnns and sanity will stand it.»«Surely, Counselor, airports have official programs of noise abatement.»«A sham, sir! A fake! A public lie! The general manager of this airport confessed to me tonight that even the paltry, so-called noise abatement measures are not being observed." And so on. Afterward, Elliott Freemantle wondered if he should have qualified the statement about noise abatement procedures-as Bakersfeld had done-by referring to exceptional conditions of tonight's storm. But serni-truth or not, the way he had said it was stronger, and Freemantle doubted if it would be challenged. Anyway, he bad given good performailces-in the second interview as well as the first. Also during both filmings, the cameras panned several times over the intent, expressive faces of the assembled Meadowood residents. Elliott Freemantle hoped that when they saw themselves on their home screens tomorrow, they would remember who had been responsible for all the attention they were receiving. The number of Meadowooders who had followed him to the airport-as if he were their personal Pied Piper –astonished him. Attendance at the meeting in the Sunday school hall at Meadowood had been roughly six hundred. In view of the bad night and lateness of the hour, he had thought they would be doing well if half that number made the farther trek to the airport; but not only did most of the original crowd come; some must have telephoned friends and neighbors who bad joined them. He had even had requests for more copies of the printed forms retaining himself as legal counsel, which he was happy to pass out. Some revised mental arithmetic convinced him that his first hope of a fee from Meadowood totaling twenty-five thousand doUars might well be exceeded. After the Tv interviews, the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson-who had been taking notes during the filming –inquired, "What comes next, Mr. Freemantle? Do you intend to stage some kind of demonstration here?" Freemantle shook his head. "Unfortunately the management of this airport does not believe in free speech, and we have been denied the elementary privilege of a public meeting. However"-he indicated the assembled Meadowooders-"I do intend to report to these ladies and gentlemen.»«Isn't that the same thing as a public meeting?" "No, it is not." Just the same, Elliott Freemantle conceded to himself, it would be a fine distinction, especially since he had every intention of turning what followed into a public demonstration if he could. His objective was to get started with an aggressive speech, which the airport police would dutifully order him to stop. Freemantle had no intention of resisting, or of getting arrested. Merely being halted by the police-if possible in fuU oratorical flow-would establish him as a Meadowood martyr and, incidentally, create one more color story for tomorrow's papers. (The morning papers, he imagined, had already closed with the earlier reports about himself and Meadowood; editors of the afternoon editions would be gniteful for a new lead.) Even more important, Meadowood homeowners would be further convinced that they had hired a strong counsel and leader, well worth his fee-the first installment checks for which, Lawyer Freemantle hoped, would start flooding in right after tomorrow. "We're all set to go," Floyd Zanetta, chairman of the earlier Meadowood meeting, reported. While Freemantle and the Tribune newsman had been speaking, several of the Meadowood men had hastily assembled the portable p.a. system, brought from the Sunday school hall. One of the men now handed Freemantle a hand microphone. Using it, he began to address the crowd.
"My friends, we came here tonight in a mood of reason and with constructive thoughts. We sought to communicate that mood and thoughts to this airport's management, believing we bad a real and urgent problem, worthy of careful consideration. On your behalf I attempted-in reasoned but firm terms-to make that problem known. I hoped to report back to you-at best, some promise of relief; at least, some sympathy and understanding. I regret to tell you that your delegation received none. Instead, we were accorded only hostility, abuse, and an uncaring, cynical assurance that in future the airport's noise above and around your homes is going to get worse." There was a cry of outrage. Freemantle raised a hand. "Ask the others who were with me. They will tell you." He pointed to the front of the crowd. "Did this airport's general manager, or did he not, inform us that there was worse to come?" At first a shade reluctantly, then more definitely, those who had been in the delegation nodded. Having skillfully misrepresented the honest frankness which Mel Bakersfeld had shown the delegation, Elliott Freemantle continued, "I see others, as well as my Meadowood friends and clients, who have stopped, with curiosity, to discover what is going on. We welcome their interest. Let me inform you He continued in his customary, haranguing style. The crowd, sizable before, was now larger still, and continuing to grow. Travelers on their way to departure gates were having trouble getting through. Flight announcements were being drowned out by the noise. Among the Meadowooders, several had raised hastily scrawled signs which read: AIRLANES OR PEOPLE FIRST? … OUTLAW JETS FROM MEADOWOOD! . . . NIX NOXIOUS NOISE . . . MEADOWOOD PAYS TAXES TOO… IMPEACH LINCOLN! Whenever Freemantle paused, the shouts and general uproar grew louder. A gray-haired man in a windbreaker yelled, "Let's give the airport a taste of their own noise." His words produced a roar of approval. Without question, Elliott Freemantle's "report" had by now developed into a fufl-scale demonstration. At any moment, he expected, the police would intervene. What Lawyer Freemantle did not know was that wfifle the Tv sessions were taking place and Meadowood residents assembling, the airport management's concern about Trans America Flight Two was beginning. Shortly after, every policeman in the terminal was concentrating on a search for Inez Guerrero, and thus the Meadowood demonstration escaped attention. Even after Inez was found, Police Lieutenant Ordway remained occupied with the emergency session in Mel Bakersfeld's office. As a result, after another fifteen minutes, Elliott Freemantle was becoming worried. Impressive as the demonstration was, unless halted officially, it would have little point. Where in God's name, he thought, were the airport police, and why weren't they doing their job? It was then that Lieutenant Ordway and Mel Bakersfeld came down together from the administrative mezzanine. Several minutes earlier the meeting in Mel's office had broken up. After the interrogation of Inez Guerrero and dispatch of the second warning message to Flight Two, there was nothing to be gained by retaining everyone together. Tanya Livingston, with the Trans America D.T.M. and chief pilot, returned anxiously to the airline's OffiCCS in the terminal, to await any fresh news there. The others-with the exception of Inez Guerrero, who was being held for questioning by downtown police detectives-returned to their own bailiwicks. Tanya had promised to notify Customs Inspector Standish, who was distressed and anxious about his niece aboard Flight Two, immediately there was any new development. Mel, not certain where he would keep his own vigil, left his office with Ned Ordway. Ordway saw the Meadowood demonstration first and caught sight of Elliott Freemantle. "That damn lawyerl I told him there'd be no demonstrations here." He hurried toward the concourse crowd. "I'll break this up fast."
Alongside, Mel cautioned, "He may be counting on you doing that-just so he can be a hero." As they came nearer, Ordway shouldering his way ahead throu,yh the crowd, Elliott Freemantle proclaimed, "Despite assurances from the airport management earlier this evening, heavy air traffic-deafening and shattering as always-is still continuing at this late hour. Even now. . .»«Never mind that," Ned Ordway cut in brusquely. "I already told you there would be no demonstrations in this terminal.»«But, Lieutenant, I assure you this is not a demonstration." Freemantle still held the microphone, so that his words carried clearly. "All that's happened is that I granted a television inter-view after a meeting with the airport management-I might say a highly unsatisfactory meeting-then reported to these people . . .»«Report some place else!" Ordway swung around, facing others nearest him. "Now, let's break this up!" There were hostile glances and angry mutterings among the crowd. As the policeman turned back to Elliott Freemantle, photographers' flash bulbs popped. TV floodlights, which had been turned off, went bright once more as television cameras focused on the two. At last, Elliott Freemantle thought, everything was going just the way he wanted. On the fringe of the crowd, Mel Bakersfeld was talking with one of the TV men and Tomlinson of the Tribune. The reporter was consulting his notes and reading a passage back. As he listened, Mel's face suffused with anger. "Lieutenant," Elliott Freemantle was saying to Ned Ordway, "I have the greatest respect for you and for your uniform. Just the same, I'd like to point out that we did hold a meeting some place else tonight-at Mead– owood-but because of noise from this airport, we couldn't bear ourselves." Ordway snapped back, "I'm not here for a debate, Mr. Freemantle. If you don't do as I say, you'll be arrested. I'm ordering you to get this group out of here." Someone in the crowd shouted, "Suppose we won't go?" Another voice urged, "Let's stay here! They can't arrest all of us.»«No!" Elliott Freemantle held up a hand self-righteously. "Please listen to me! There will be no disorder; no disobedience. My friends and clients-this police officer has ordered us to desist and leave. We will comply with his order. We may consider it a grave restriction of free speech" . . . there were responsive cheers and booing . . . "but let it not be said that at any point we failed to respect the law." More crisply, he added, "I shall have a statement for the press outside.»«One moment!" Mel Bakersfeld's voice cut sharply across the heads of others. He thrust his way forward. "Freemantle, I'm interested to know what will be in that press statement of yours. Will it be more misrepresentation. Another dose of distorted law reports to delude people who don't know any better? Or just plain, oldfashioned fabrication which you're so expert at?" Mel spoke loudly, his words carrying to those nearby. There was a buzz of interested reaction. People who had begun drifting away, stopped. Elliott Freemantle reacted automatically. "That's a malicious, libelous statement!" An instant later, scenting danger, he shrugged. "However, I shall let it pass.»«Why? If it is libelous, you should know how to handle it." Mel faced the lawyer squarely. "Or perhaps you're afraid of it proving true.»«I'm afraid of nothing, Mr. Bakersfeld. The fact is, we've been told by this policeman that the party's over. Now, if you'll excuse me. . .»«I said it was over for you," Ned Ordway pointed out. "What Mr. Bakersfeld does is something again. He has authority here." Ordway had moved beside Mel; together they blocked the lawyer's way. "If you were a real policeman," Freemantle objected, "you'd treat us both equally." Mel said unexpectedly, "I think he's right." Ordway glanced at him curiously. "You should treat us both equally. And instead of closing this meeting, I think you
should allow me the same privilege of talking to these people which Mr. Freemantle just bad. That is, if you want to be a real policeman.»«I guess I want to be." The big Negro police lieutenant, towering above the other two, was grinning. "I'm beginning to see it your way-and Mr. Freemantle's." Mel observed blandly to Elliott Freernantle, "You see, he's come around. Now, since we're all here, we may as well clear up a few things." He held out his hand. "Let me have that microphone." Mel's anger of a minute or two ago was now less apparent. When the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson, had read back from his notes the gist of what Elliott Freemantle stated in his TV interviews and later, Met reacted heatedly. Both Ton-Ainson and the TV producer asked Mel to comment on what had been said. He assured them that he would. "Oh no!" Freernantle shook his head decisively. The danger which he scented a few moments earlier was suddenly close and real. Once before, tonight, he had underestimated this man Bakersfeld; he had no intention of repeating that mistake. Freemantle himself now had the assembled Meadowood residents firmly under control; it was essential to his purpose that they remain that way. All he wanted at this moment was for everyone to disperse quickly. He declared loftily, "More than enough has been said." Ignoring Mel, he passed the microphone to one of the Meadowood men and indicated the p.a. equipment. "Let's get all this apart and be on our way.»«I'll take that." Ned Ordway reached over and intercepted the microphone. "And leave the rest where it is." He nodded to several other policemen who had appeared on the fringes of the crowd. They moved in. While Freemantle watched helplessly, Ordway handed the microphone to Mel. "Thank you." Met faced the crowd of Meadowooders –many of their faces hostile-and others who, passing through the terminal, had stopped to listen. Though it was twenty minutes after midnight, and now Saturday morning, the heavy traffic in the main concourse showed no sign of lessening. Because of many delayed flights, pressures would probably continue through the remainder of the night, merging with a heightened weekend activity until schedules got back to normal. If one of the Meadowood objectives was to create a nuisance effect, Mel thought, it was succeeding. The extra thousand or so people were taxing available space in the concourse, arriving and departing passengers having to fight their way around like a flood tide encountering a sudden sandbank. Obviously the situation must not continue for more than a few minutes. "I'll be brief," Mel said. He spoke into the microphone, telling them who and what he was. "Earlier tonight I met a delegation representing all of you. I explained some of the airport's problems; also that we understood and sympathized with yours. I expected what I said to be passed along, if not exactly, then at least in substance. Instead, I find that I have been misrepresented and you have been deceived." Elliott Freemantle emitted a roar of rage. "That's a fie!" His face was flushed. For the first time tonight his impeccably styled hair was disarrayed. Lieutenant Ordway grasped the lawyer firmly by the arm. "Hush up, now! You had your turn." In front of Mel a broadcast microphone had joined the hand mike he was using. The TV lights were on as he continued. "Mr. Freemantle accuses me of lying. He's been strong in his use of words tonight." Mel consulted a note in his hand. "I understand they include 'thievery,' 'indifference,' that I met your delegation with 'hostility and abuse'; further, that the noise abatement measures we are trying to enforce are a 'sham, a fake, and a public lie.' Well, we'll see what you think about who's lying-or misrepresenting-and who is not." He had made an error earlier, Mel realized, in speaking to the small delegation and not to this main group. His objectives had been to achieve understanding, yet avoid disruption in the terminal. Both objectives had failed. But at least he would aim for understanding now.
"Let me outline this airport's policy on noise suppression.» For the second time tonight Mel described the operating limitations on pilots and their employer airlines. He added, "At normal times these restrictions are enforced. But in difficult weather, such as tonight's storm, pilots must be given leeway, and aircraft safety must come first." As to runways: "Wherever possible we avoid takeoffs over Meadowood from runway two five." Yet, he explained, there was occasional need to use that runway when runway three zero was out of commission, as at present. "We do our best for you," Mel insisted, "and we are not indifferent, as has been alleged. But we are in business as an airport and we cannot escape our basic responsibilities, plus our concern for aviation safety." The hostility among his audience was still apparent, but now there was interest as well. Elliott Freemantle-glaring at Mel and fuming-was aware of the interest too. "From what I've heard," Mel said, "Mr. Freemantle chose not to pass on some observations I offered to your delegation on the general subject of airport noise. My remarks were made"-he consulted his notes again,, not in 'uncaring cynicism,' as has been suggested, but in an attempt at honest frankness. I intend to share that frankness with you here." Now, as earlier, Mel admitted there was little more in the area of noise reduction which could be done; glum expressions appeared when he described the expected greater noise from new aircraft soon to be in use. But he sensed there was appreciation for objective honesty. Beyond a few scattered remarks, there were no interruptions, his words remaining audible above the background noises of the terminal. "There are two other things which I did not mention to your delegation, but now I intend to." Mel's voice hardened. "I doubt if you will like them." The first point, he informed them, concerned Meadowood community. "Twelve years ago your community didn't exist. It was a parcel of empty land-of low value until the airport's growth and closeness sent surrounding values soaring. To that extent your Meadowood is like thou– sands of communities which have mushroomed around airports everywhere in the world." A woman shouted, "When we came to live here, we didn't know about jet noise.»«But we did!" Mel pointed a finger at the woman. "Airport managements knew that jet airplanes were coming, and knew what jet noise would be like, and we warned people, and local zoning commissions, and pleaded with them in countless Meadowoods not to build homes. I wasn't at this airport then, but there are records and pictures in our files. This airport put up signs where Meadowood is now: AIRPLANES WILL TAKE OFF AND LAND OVER THIS ROUTE. Other airports did the same. And everywhere the signs appeared, real estate developers and salesmen tore them down. Then they sold land and houses to people like you, keeping quiet about the noise to come, and airport expansion plans-which usually they knew of-and I guess in the end the real estate people outwitted us all." This time there was no rejoinder, only a sea of thoughtful faces, and Mel guessed that what he had said had struck home. He had a sense of keen regret. These were not antagonists whom he wanted to defeat. They were decent people with a real and pressing problem; neighbors for whom he wished he could do more. He caught sight of Elliott Freemantle's sneering features. "Bakersfeld, I suppose you think that's pretty clever." The lawyer turned away, shouting over nearer heads without benefit of amplifier. "Don't believe all that! You're being softened up! If you stick with me, we'll take these airport people, and we'll take them good!" "In case any of you didn't hear," Mel said into the microphone, "that was Mr. Freemantle advising you to stick with him. I have something to say about that, too." He told the now attentive crowd, "Many peoplepeople like you-have had advantage taken of them by
being sold land or homes in areas which should not have been developed, or should have been developed for industrial use where airport noise doesn't matter. You haven't lost out entirely, because you have your land and homes; but chances are, their values have decreased." A man said gloomily, "Dam-n right!" "Now there's another scheme afoot to part you from your money. Lawyers all over North America are hotfooting it to airport dormitory communities because 'thar's gold in that thar noise.' " Lawyer Freemantle, his face flushed and distorted, shrilled, "You say one more word-I'll sue you!" "For what" Mel shot back. "Or have you guessed already what I'm going to say?" Well, he thought, maybe Freemantle would launch a libel action later, though he doubted it. Either way, Mel felt some of his old recklessness-a decision for plain speaking, and never mind the consequences-take command. It was a feeling which, in the past year or two, he had experienced rarely. "Residents in the communities I spoke of," Mel argued, "are being assured that airports can be suedsuccessfully. Homeowners near airports are being promised there's a pot of dollars at every runway's end. Well, I'm not saying airports can't be sued, nor am I saying there aren't some fine, sound lawyers engaged in antiairport litigation. What I'm warning you is that there are a good many of the other kind, too." The same woman who had called out before askedmore mildly this time-"How are we supposed to know which is which?" "It's difficult without a program; in other words, unless you happen to know some airport law. If you don't, you can be bamboozled by a one-sided list of legal precedents." Mel hesitated only briefly before adding, "I've heard a few specific law decisions mentioned tonight. If you wish, I'll tell you another side to them." A man at the front said, "Let's hear your version, mister." Several people were looking curiously at Elliott Freemantle. Mel had hesitated, realizing that this had already gone on longer than he intended. He supposed, though, that a few minutes more would make no difference. On the fringes of the crowd he caught sight of Tanya Livingston. "The legal cases which you and I have both heard referred to glibly," Mel said, "are old hat to people who ran airports. The first, I think, was U.S. v. Causby." That particular case,-a pillar of Lawyer Freemantle's presentation to the Meadowood group-was, Mel explained, a decision more than twenty years old. "It concerned a chicken fanner and military airplanes. ne airplanes repeatedly flew over the farmer's house, as low as sixty-seven feet-a whole lot lower than any airplane ever comes near Meadowood. The chickens were frightened; some died." After years of litigation the case found its way to the U.S. Supreme Court. Mel pointed out: "The total damages awarded were less than four hundred dollars-the value of the dead chickens." He added, "There was no pot of dollars for the farmer, nor is there-in that legal precedent-for you." Mel could see Elliott Freemantle, his face alternately crimson and white with rage. Ned Ordway was once more holding the lawyer by the arm. "There is one legal case," Mel observed, "which Mr. Freemantle has chosen not to mention. It's an important one-also involving a Supreme Court ruling-and well known. Unfortunately for Mr. Freemantle, it doesn't support his arguments, but runs counter to them." The case, he explained, was Batten v. Batten in which, in 1963, the Supreme Court ruled that only an actual "physical invasion" created liability. Noise alone was not enough. Mel continued, "Another ruling, along the same lines, was Loma Portal Civic Club v. American Airlines-a 1964 decision of the California Supreme Court." In this, he reported, the Court ruled that property owners were not entitled to restrict the flight of aircraft over houses
near an airport. Public interest in continuance of air travel, the California court laid down, was paramount and overwhelming. . . Mel had quoted the legal cases unhesitatingly, without reference to notes. Clearly his audience was impressed. Now he smiled. "Legal precedents are like statistics. If you manipulate them, you can prove anything." He added, "You don't have to take my word for what I've told you. Look it up. It's all on record." A woman near Elliott Freemantle grumbled at him, "You didn't tell us all that. You just gave your side." Some of the hostility directed at Mel earlier was now being transferred toward the lawyer. Freemantle shrugged. After all, he decided, he still had more than a hundred and sixty signed retainer forms, which he had been careful to transfer to a locked bag in the trunk of his car. Nothing that was said here could undo the fact of those. A moment or two later he began to wonder. Mel Bakersfeld was being asked by several people about legal contract forms which they had signed this evening. Their voices betrayed doubt. Obviously Mel's manner, as well as what he said, had made a strong impression. The crowd was dividing into small groups, most in animated discussion. "I've been asked about a certain contract," Mel announced. Within the crowd, other voices silenced as he added, "I think you know the contract I mean. I have seen a copy of it." Elliott Freemantle pushed forward. "So what! You aren't a lawyer; we've settled that once before. Therefore you're no authority on contracts." This time Freemantle was close enough to the microphone for his words to carry. Mel snapped back, "I live with contracts! Every lessee in this airport-from the biggest airline to a headache pill concessionaire-operates under a contract approved by me, and negotiated by my staff." He swung back to the crowd. "Mr. Freemantle points out, correctly, that I am not a lawyer; so I'll give you a businessman's advice. In certain circumstances the con– tracts you signed tonight could be enforceable. A contract is a contract. You could be taken to debtor's court; the money might be collected. But my opinion is that, providing you serve proper notice immediately, neither thing will happen. For one thing, you have received no goods; no service has been rendered. For another, each of you would have to be sued separately." Mel smiled. "That, in itself, would be an undertaking. "One more thing." He looked directly at Elliott Freemantle. "I do not believe that any court would look favorably on a total legal fee in the region of fifteen thousand dollars for legal service which, at best, was nebulous." The man who had spoken earlier asked, "So what do we do?" "If you've genuinely changed your mind, I suggest that today or tomorrow you write a letter. Address it to Mr. Freemantle. In it, state that you no longer want legal representation as arranged, and why. Be sure to keep a copy. Again, in my opinion-that's the last you'll ever hear." Mel had been blunter than he at first intended, and he bad also been excessively reckless, he supposed, in going quite this far. If Elliott Freernantle chose, he could certainly make trouble. In a matter in which the airport-and therefore Mel-had active interest, Mel had interposed between clients and lawyer, casting doubt upon the latter's probity. Judging by the hatred in the lawyer's eyes, he would be delighted to do any harm to Mel he could. Yet instinct told Mel that the last thing Freemantle wanted was a searching public scrutiny of his client recruiting methods and working babits. A trial judge, sensitive about legal ethics, might ask awkward questions, later still, so might the Bar Association, which safeguarded the legal profession's standards. The more Mel thought about it, the less inclined he was to worry. Though Mel didn't know it, Elliott Freemantle had reached the same conclusion. Whatever else Freemantle might be, he was a pragmatist. He had long ago recognized that in life there were– gambits which you won, others that you lost. Sometimes the loss was sudden and illogical. A chance, a quirk, a nettle in the grass, could turn an almost-grasped success into mortifying defeat. Fortunately for people like Freemantle, the reverse was sometimes true. The airport manager, Bakersfeld, had proven to be a nettle-carelessly grasped-which should have been avoided. Even after their first brush, which Elliott Freemantle now realized could have been a warning to him, he had continued to underestimate his opponent by remaining at the airport instead of quitting while ahead. Another thing Freemantle had discovered too late was that Bakersfeld, while shrewd, was a gambler too. Only a gambler would have gone out on such a limb as Bakersfeld bad a moment ago. And only Elliott Freemantle –at this point-knew that Bakersfeld had won. Freemantle was aware that the Bar Association might regard this night's activity unfavorably. More to the point: He had had a brush with an association investigating committee once already, and had no intention of provoking another. Bakersfeld had been right, Elliott Freemantle thought. There would be no attempted debt collecting, through the courts, on the basis of the signed legal retainer forms. The hazards were too great, the spoils uncertain. He would not give up entirely, of course. Tomorrow, Freemantle decided, he would draft a letter to all Meadowood residents who had signed the forms; in it he would do his best to persuade them that retention of himself as legal counsel, at the individual fee specified, should continue. He doubted, though, if many would respond. The suspicion which Bakersfeld had effectively implanted-damn his guts!-was too great. There might be some small pickings left, from a few people who would be willing to continue, and later it would be necessary to decide if they were worth while. But the prospect of a big killing was gone. Something else, though, he supposed, would turn up soon. It always had. Ned Ordway and several other policemen were now dispersing the crowd; normal traffic through the concourse was resuming. The portable p.a. system was at last being disassembled and removed. Mel Bakersfeld noticed that Tanya, whom he had caught sight of a moment or two ago, was making her way in his direction. A woman-one of the Meadowood residents whom Mel had noticed several times before-confronted him. She had a strong intelligent face and shoulder-length brown hair. "Mr. Bakersfeld," the woman said quietly. "We've all talked a lot, and we understand a few things better than we did. But I still haven't heard anything that I can tell my children when they cry, and ask why the noise won't stop so they can sleep." Mel shook his head regretfully. In a few words the woman bad pointed up the futility of everything which had happened tonight. He knew he bad no answer for her. He doubted-while airports and dwellings remained in proximity-if there would ever be one. He was still wondering what to say when Tanya handed him a folded sheet of paper. Opening it, he read the message wl-Ach showed signs of being hastily typed: flight 2 had mid-air explosion. structural damage & injuries. now heading here 4 emergency landing, est. arrival 0130. capt. says must have runway three zero. tower reports runway still blocked. 12In the bloody shambles which was the rear of the tourist cabin of Flight Two, Dr. Milton Compagno, general
practitioner, was exerting the utmost of his professional skill in an attempt to save Gwen Meighen's life. He was not sure he would succeed. When the initial explosion from D. 0. Guerrero's dynamite bomb occurred, Gwen-next to Guerrero himself-was closest to the explosion's center. In other circumstances she would have been killed instantly, as was D. 0. Guerrero. Two things-for the moment-saved her. Interposed between Gwen and the explosion were Guerrero's body and the aircraft toilet door. Neither was an effective shield, yet the two together were sufficient to delay the blast's initial force the fraction of a second. Within that fractional time the airplane's skin ripped, and the second explosion-explosive decompressionoccurred. The dynamite blast still struck Gwen, hurling her backward, gravely injured and bleeding, but its force now had an opposing force-the outward rush of air through the bole in the fuselage at the aircraft's rear. The effect was as if two tornadoes met head on. An instant later the decompression triumphed, sweeping the original explosion out with it into the high-altitude, darkened night. Despite the forcefulness of the explosion, injuries were not widespread. Gwen Meighen, the most critically hurt, lay unconscious in the aisle. Next to her, the owlish young man who had emerged from the toilet and startled Guerrero, was wounded, bleeding badly, and dazed, but still on his feet and conscious. A half dozen passengers nearby sustained cuts and contusions from splinters and bomb fragments. Others were struck, and stunned or bruised by hurtling objects impelled toward the aircraft's rear by the explosive decompression, but none of the latter injuries was major. At first, after decompression, all who were not secure in seats were impelled by suction toward the gaping hole in the aircraft's rear. From this danger, too, Gwen Meighen was in gravest peril. But she had fallen so that an arm instinctively or accidentally-encircled a seat base. It prevented her from being dragged farther, and her body blocked others. After the initial outrush of air, the suction lessened. Now, thc greatest immediate danger for all-injured or not-was lack of oxygen. Although oxygen masks dropped promptly from their housings, only a handful of passengers had grasped and put them on at once. Before it was too late, however, a few people had acted. Stewardesses, responding to their training, and wherever they happened to be, seized masks and motioned others to do likewise. Three doctors, traveling with their wives as members of an off-season vacation tour, realized the need for speed, donned masks themselves and gave hasty instructions to those around them. Judy, the alert, eighteen-year-old niece of Customs Inspector Standish, placed a mask over the face of the baby in the seat beside her, as well as over her own. She then immediately signaled the baby's parents, and others across the aisle, to use oxygen. Mrs. Quonsett, the old lady stowaway, having observed oxygen demonstrations many times during her illegal flights, knew what to do. She took a mask herself and handed one to her friend, the oboe player, whom she pulled back into his seat beside her. Mrs. Quonsett had no idea if she was going to live or die, and found herself not greatly worried; but whatever happened, she intended to know what was going on until the very last moment. Someone thrust a mask at the young man near Gwen who had been wounded. Though swaying, and scarcely aware of what was happening, he managed to hold it to his face. Even so, barely half the passengers were on oxygen at the end of fifteen seconds-the critical time. By then, those not breathing oxygen were lapsing into drowsy stupor; in another fifteen seconds, most were unconscious. Gwen Meighen received no oxygen, nor immediate help. The unconsciousness, caused by her injuries, deepened. Then, on the flight deck, Anson Harris, accepting the
risk of further structural damage and possible total destruction of the aircraft, made his decision for a high speed dive, saving Gwen and others from asphyxiation. The dive began at twenty-eight thousand feet altitude; it ended, two and a half minutes later, at ten thousand feet. A human being can survive without oxygen for three to four minutes without damage to the brain. For the first half of the dive-for a minute and a quarter, down to nineteen thousand feet-the air continued to be rarefied, and insufficient to support life. Below that point, increasing amounts of oxygen were present and breathable. At twelve thousand feet regular breathing was possible. By ten-with little time to spare, but enoughconsciousness returned to all aboard Flight Two who had lost it, excepting Gwen. Many were unaware of having been unconscious at all. Gradually, as initial shock wore off, passengers and the remaining stewardesses took stock of their situation. The stewardess who was second in seniority after Gwen –a pert blonde from Oak Lawn, Illinois-hurried toward the injured at the rear. Though her face paled, she called urgently, "Is there a doctor, please?" "Yes, miss." Dr. Compagno bad already moved from his seat without waiting to be called. A small, sharp-featured man who moved impatiently and talked quickly with a Brooklyn accent, he surveyed the scene hurriedly, conscious of the already biting cold, the wind streaming noisily through the gaping hole in the fuselage. Where the toilets and rear galley had been was a twisted mess of charred and bloodstained wood and metal. The back of the fuselage to the interior of the tail was open, with control wires and structural assemblies exposed. The doctor raised his voice to make himself heard above the noise of wind and engines, constant and encompassing now that the cabin was no longer sealed. "I suggest you move as many people as you can nearer the front. Keep everyone as warm as possible. We'll need blankets for those who are hurt." The stewardess said doubtfully, "I'll try to find some." Many of the blankets normally stored in overhead racks had been swept out, along with passengers' extra clothing and other objects, in the whirlwind of decompression. The two other doctors from Dr. Compagno's tour party joined him. One instructed another stewardess, "Bring us all the first aid equipment you have." Compagno-already on his knees beside Gwen-was the only one of the three with a medical bag. Carrying a bag with emergency supplies wherever he went was characteristic of Milton Compagno. So was taking charge now, even though-as a G.P.-he was outranked professionally by the other two doctors who were internists. Milton Compagno never considered himself off duty. Thirty-five years ago, as a young man who had fought an upward battle from a New York slum, he hung out a shingle in Chicago's Little Italy, near MHwaukee and Grand Avenues. Since then-as his wife told it, usually with resignation-the only time he ceased practicing medicine was while he slept. He enjoyed being needed. He acted as if his profession were a prize he had won, which, if not guarded, would slip away. He had never been known to refuse to see a patient at any hour, or to fail to make a house call if sent for. He never drove past an accident scene as did many of his medical brethren, fearing malpractice suits; he always stopped, got out of his car, and did what be could. He kept conscientiously up to date. Yet the more he worked, the more he seemed to thrive. He gave the impression of running through each day as if he planned to assuage the world's ailments in a lifetime, of which too little was left. The journey to Rome-many years postponed-was to visit the birthplace of his parents. With his wife, Dr. Compagno was to be away a month, and because he was growing old, he had agreed that the time should be a total rest. Yet he fully anticipated that somewhere en route, or perhaps in Italy (never mind regulations about not being licensed) he would be needed. If so, he was ready. It did not surprise him that he was needed now. He moved first to Gwen who was clearly most critical
among those hurt. He told his colleagues, over his shoulder, "You attend to the others." In the narrow aisle, Dr. Compagno turned Gwen over partially, leaning forward to detect if she was breathing. She was, but her breath was light and shallow. He called to the stewardess he had been speaking to, "I need oxygen down here." While the girl brought a portable bottle and mask, he checked Gwen's mouth for an unobstructed airway; there were smashed teeth, which he removed, and a good deal of blood; he made sure the bleeding was not preventing respiration. He told the stewardess, "Hold the mask in place." The oxygen hissed. Within a minute or two a vestige of color re– turned to Gwen's skin, which had been ominously white. Meanwhile, he began to control bleeding, extensive around the face and chest. Working quickly, he used a hemostat to clamp off a facial artery-worst site of external hemorrhage-and pressure dressings elsewhere. He had already detected a probable fracture of the clavicle and left arm, which would need to be splinted later. He was distressed to see what appeared to be splinters from the explosion in the patient's left eye; he was less sure about the right. Second Officer Jordan, having moved carefully around Dr. Compagno and Gwen, took charge of the remaining stewardesses and was supervising the movement of passengers forward in the aircraft. As many tourist passengers as possible were being moved into the first class section, some squeezed in, two to a seat, others directed to the small, semicircular first class lounge, where spare seats were available. Such extra clothing as remained was distributed among those who appeared to need it most, without regard to ownership. As always, in such situations, people showed a willingness to help one another, unselfishness, and even flashes of humor. The other two doctors were bandaging passengers who had received cuts, none excessively serious. The young man with glasses, who was behind Gwen at the moment of the explosion, bad a deep gash in one arm, but it could be repaired and would heal. He had other minor cuts about the face and shoulders. For the time being, pressure dressings were applied to his injured arm, and he was given morphine, while being made as comfortable and warm as possible. Both the medical attention and movement of passengers was being made more difficult by heavy buffeting which the aircraft, at its present low altitude, was taking from the storm. There was constant turbulence, punc– tuated every few minutes by violent pitching or sideways movements. Several passengers were finding airsickness added to their other troubles. After reporting to the flight deck for the second time, Cy Jordan returned to Dr. Compagno. "Doctor, Captain Dernerest asked me to say he's grateful for everything you and the other doctors are doing. When you can spare a moment, he'd appreciate it if you'd come to the flight deck to teU him what to radio ahead about casualties.»«Hold this dressing," Dr. Compagno ordered. "Press down hard, right there. Now I want you to help me with a splint. We'll use one of those leather magazine covers, with a towel under it. Get the biggest cover you can find, and leave the magazine in." A moment later: "I'll come when I can. You can say to your captain that I think, as soon as possible, he should make an announcement to the passengers. People qre getting over their shock. They could use some reassurance.»«Yes, sir." Cy Jordan looked down at the still unconscious figure of Gwen, his normally mournful, hollowchecked face accentuated by concern. "Is there a chance for her, Doc?" "There's a chance, son, though I wouldn't say it was the best. A lot depends on her own strength.»«I always figured she had a lot of that.»«A pretty girl, wasn't she?" Amid the tom flesh, blood, and dirty, tousled hair, it was difficult to be sure. "Very." CompaQno remained silent. Whatever happened, the girl on the floor would not be pretty any more-not without plastic surgery.
"I'll give the captain your message, sir." Looking a little sicker than before, Cy Jordan went forward to the flight deck. Vernon Demerest's voice came calmly on the cabin p.a. system a few moments later. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Demerest . . To overcome the roar of wind and engines, Cy Jordan had turned the volume control to "full." Each word rang clearly. "You know we've had trouble-bad trouble. I won't attempt to minimize it. I won't make any jokes either, because up here on the flight deck we don't see anything that's funny, and I imagine you feel the same way. We've all come through an experience which none of us in the crew has ever had before, and I hope will never have again. But we have come through. Now, we have the airplane under control, we're turned around, and expect to land at Lincoln International in about three quarters of an hour." In the two passenger cabins, where first and tourist class now mingled without distinction, movement and conversation stopped. Eyes instinctively went to the overhead speakers as everyone within hearing strained to miss nothing of what was said. "You know, of course, that the airplane is damaged. But it's also true that the damage could have been a whole lot worse." On the flight deck, with the p.a. mike in hand, Vernon Demerest wondered how specific-and how honest-he should be. On his own regular flights he always kept captain-to-passengers announcements to the barest terse minimum. He disapproved of "long-playing captains" who bombarded their captive audience with assorted commentaries from a flight's beginning to its end. He sensed, though, that this time he should say more, and that passengers were entitled to be told the true situation. "I won't conceal from you," Demerest said into the microphone, "that we have a few problems still ahead of us. Our landing will be heavy, and we're not sure how the damage we've suffered will affect it. I'm telling you this because right after this announcement the crew will start giving instructions on how to sit, and how to brace yourselves, just before. we land. Another thing you'll be told is how to get out of the airplane in a hurry, if we need to, right after landing. If that should happen, please act caln-dy but quickly, and obey instructions given you by any member of the crew. "Let me assure you that on the ground everything necessary is being done to help us." Remembering their need for runway three zero, Demerest hoped it was true. He also decided there was no point in going into detail about the problem of the jammed stabilizer; most passengers wouldn't understand it anyway. With a touch of lightness in his voice, he added, "In one way you're lucky tonight because instead of one experienced captain on the flight deck, it just so happens you have two-Captain Harris and myself. We're a couple of ancient pelicans with more years of flying than we sometimes like to think about-except right now when all that combined experience comes in mighty useful. We'll be helping each other, along with Second Officer Jordan. who'll also be spending part of his time back with you. Please help us too. If you do, I promise you we'll come through this together-saf ely." Dernerest replaced the p.a. mike. Without taking his eyes from the flight instruments, Anson Harris remarked, "That was pretty good. You should be in politics." Demerest said sourly, "Nobody'd vote for me. Most times, people don't like plain talking and the truth." He was remembering bitterly the Board of Airport Commissioners meeting at Lincoln International where he urged curtailment of airport insurance vending. Plain speech there had proved disastrous. He wondered how the members of the Board, including his smooth, smug brother-in-law, would feet after learning about D. 0. Guerrero's purchase of insurance and his maniacal intention to destroy Flight Two. Probably, Dernerest thought, they would be complacent as ever, except that now instead of saying It will never happen, they would say, What occurred was exceptional; the odds are
against it happening again. Well, assuming Flight Two made it back safely, and whatever was said or wasn't, sure as hell he was going to create another big fight about airport insurance vending. The difference was: this time more people would listen. Tonight's near disaster, however it turned out, was certain to attract a lot of press attention; he would make the most of it. He would talk bluntly to reporters about flight insurance, about the Lincoln airport commissioners, and not least about his precious brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld. Trans America's public relations flacks would do their damnedest, of course, to keep him incommunicado "in the interests of company policy." Just let them try! The radio crackled alive. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Lincoln advises runway three zero still temporarily out of use. They are attempting to clear obstruction before you arrive. Failing that, will land you on two five." Harris's face went grim as Demerest acknowledged. Runway two five was two thousand feet shorter, as well as narrower, and at the moment with a bad crosswind. Using it would compound the hazards they already faced. Demerest's expression clearly reflected his reaction to the message. They were still being thrown about severely by the storm. Most of Harris's time was occupied by holding the aircraft reasonably steady. Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Cy, go back with the passengers again, and take charge. See that the girls demonstrate the landing drill, and that everybody understands it. Then pick some key people who look reliable. Make sure they know where emergency exits are and how to use them. If we run out of runway, which'11 be for sure if we use two five, everything may come apart in a hurry. If that happens we'll all try to make it back there and help, but there may not be time.»«Yes, sir." Once more, Jordan eased out of his flight engineer's seat. Demerest, still anxious for news of Gwen, would have preferred to go himself, but at this stage neither he nor Harris could leave the flight deck. As Cy Jordan left, Dr. Compagno arrived. It was now easier to move into and from the flight deck, since Jordan had moved the smashed entrance door to one side. Milton Compagno introduced himself briskly to Vernon Demerest. "Captain, I have the report of injuries you asked for.»«We're grateful to you, Doctor. If you hadn't been here . . ." Compagno waved a hand in dismissal. "Let's do all that later." lie opened a leather-covered notebook where a slim gold pencil marked a page. It was characteristic that he had already obtained names, and recorded injuries and treatment. "Your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is the most badly hurt. She has multiple lacerations of the face and chest, with considerable bleeding. There is a compound fracture of the left arm and, of course, shock. Also, please notify whoever is making arrangements on the ground that an ophthalmic surgeon should be available immediately." Vernon Demerest, his face paler than usual, had been steeling himself to copy the doctor's information onto the flight log clipboard. Now, with sudden shock, he stopped. "An ophthalmic surgeon! You mean … her eyes?" "I'm afraid so," Dr. Compagno said gravely. He corrected himsetf. "At least, her left eye has splinters, whether wood or metal I've no means of knowing. It will require a specialist to decide if the retina is affected. The right eye, as far as I can tell, is unharmed.»«Oh, God!" Feeling physically sick, Dernerest put a hand to his face. Dr. Compagno shook his head. "It's too early to draw conclusions. Modem ophthalmic surgery can do extraordinary things. But time will be important.»«We'll send all you've told us on company radio," Anson Harris assured him. "They'll have time to be ready."
"Then I'd better give you the rest." Mechanically, Dernerest wrote down the remainder of the doctor's report. Compared with Gwen's injuries, those of other passengers were slight. "I'd better get back," Dr. Compagno said. "To see if there's any change." Dernerest saij abruptly, "Don't go." The doctor stopped, his expression curious. "Gwen . . . that is, Miss Meighen . . ." Demerest's voice sounded strained and awkward, even to himself. "She was . . . is . . . pregnant. Does it make any difference?" He saw Anson Harris glance sideways in startled surprise. The doctor answered, a shade defensively, "I had no means of knowing. The pregnancy can't be very far advanced.»«No," Demerest avoided the other man's eyes. "It isn't." A few minutes earlier he had resolved not to ask the question. Then he decided that he had to know. Mflton Compagno considered. "It will make no difference to her own ability to recover, of course. As to the child, the mother was not deprived of oxygen long enough to do harni … no one was. She has no abdominal injuries." He stopped, then went on fussily, "So there should be no effect. Providing Miss Meighen survives-and with prompt hospital treatment her chances are fair to good-the baby should be born normally." Dernerest nodded without speaking. Dr. Compagno, after a moment's hesitation, left. Briefly, between the two captains, there was a silence. Anson Harris broke it. "Vernon, I'd like to rest before I make the landing. Will you fly for a while?" Dernerest nodded, his hands and feet moving automatically to the controls. He was grateful for the absence of questioning or comment about Gwen. What– ever Harris was thinking or wondering, he had the decency to keep it to himself. Harris reached for the clipboard containing Dr. Compagno's information. "I'll send that." He switched radio receivers to call Trans America dispatch. For Vernon Dernerest the act of flying was a physical relief after the shock and emotion of what he had just heard. Possibly Harris had considered that, possibly not. Either way, it made sense that whoever was in command for the landing should conserve his energies. As to the landing, hazardous as it was going to be, Anson Harris obviously assumed he would make it. Demerest-on the basis of Harris's performance so farsaw no reason why he should not. Harris completed his radio call, then eased his seat rearward and allowed his body to rest. Beside him, Vernon Dernerest tried to concentrate solely on flying. He did not succeed. To a pilot of experience and skill, total concentration during level flight –even in difficult circumstances, as now-was neither usual nor necessary. Though he tried to banish or postpone them, thoughts of Gwen persisted. Gwen … whose chance of remaining alive was "fair to good," who tonight had been bright and beautiful and full of promise, would never go to Naples now, as they had planned . . . Gwen, who an hour or two ago had told him in her clear, sweet English voice, I happen to love you . . . Gwen, whom he loved in return, despite himself, and why not face it? With grief and anguish he visualized her-injured, unconscious, and carrying his child; the child he urged her to dispose of like an unwanted litter . . . She had replied with spirit, I was wondering when you'd get around to it . . . Later she bad been troubled. It's a gift . . . that's great and wonderful. Then suddenly, in our kind of situation you're faced with ending it all, of squandering what was given. But eventually, after his persuading, she conceded, Well, I suppose in the end I'll do what's sensible. I'll have an abortion. There would be no abortion now, In the kind of hospital Gwen was going to, it would not be permitted unless as a direct choice between saving the mother or the unborn child. From what Dr. Compagno had said, there seemed no likelihood of that; and afterward it would be too late.
So if Gwen came through, the baby would be born. Was he relieved or sorry? Vernon Demerest wasn't sure. He remembered something else, though, that Gwen had said. The digerence between you and me is that you've had a child … whatever happens there's always someone, somewhere that's you again. She had been speaking of the child whom he had never known, even by name; the girl child, born in the limbo of the Trans America 3-PPP arrangements, who had disappeared from sight immediately and forever. Tonight, under questioning, he admitted that sometimes he wondered about her. What he had not admitted was that he wondered, and remembered, more often than he cared to. His unknown daughter was eleven years old; Dem crest knew her birthday, though he tried not to re member it, but always did, wishing the same thing each year: that there was something he could do – even a simple thing like sending a greeting . . . He supposed it was because he and Sarah had never had a child (though both had wanted children) whose birthday he could share . . . At other times he asked himself ques tions to which he knew there could be no answers: Where was his daughter? What was she like? Was she happy? Sometimes he looked at children in the streets; if their ages seemed right, be speculated on whether, by merest chance . . . then chided himself for foolishness. Occasionally the thought haunted him that his daughter might be ill-treated, or need help which he had no knowledge or means to give . . . At the instinctive re minder, now, Vernon Demerest's hands tightened on the control yoke. For the first time he realized: he could never endure the same uncertainty again. His own nature demanded positiveness. He could, and would, have gone through with the abortion because that was final, definite; moreover, nothing Anson Harris had said earlier on that subject had changed his mind. True, he might have doubts, or even sorrow, afterward. But he would know. The overhead radio speaker cut abruptly through his thoughts. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Turn left on beading two zero five. Begin descent, when ready, to six thousand. Advise when leaving ten.' : Demerest s hand pulled back all four throttles to begin losing altitude. He reset the flight path indicator and eased into the turn. "Trans America Two coming on course two zero five," Anson Harris was advising Cleveland. "We are leaving ten thousand now." The buffeting increased as they descended, but with every minute they were nearer destination and the hope of safety. They were also nearing the air route boundary point where, at any moment, Cleveland would hand them over to Chicago Center. After that, there would be thirty minutes flying before entering the approach control of Lincoln friternational. Harris said quietly, "Vernon, I guess you know bow badly I feet about Gwen." He hesitated. "Whatever's between the two of you is none of my business, but if there's anything I can do as a friend . . "There's nothing," Demerest said. He had no intention of unburdening himself to Anson Harris, who was a competent pilot, but still, in Demerest's eyes, an old maid. Demerest regretted now that he had revealed as much as he did a few minutes ago, but emotion got the better of him-something which happened rarely. Now, he let his face resume a scowl, his shield against disclosing personal feelings. "Passing through eight thousand feet," Anson Harris told air route control. Demerest continued to hold the aircraft in a steady descent, on course. His eyes swept the flight instruments in consistent sequence. He remembered something about the child-bis child –who had been born eleven years ago. For weeks before the birth, he debated with himself whether he should confess his infidelity to Sarah, with the suggestion that they adopt the baby as their own. In the end, his courage had failed him. He dreaded his wife's shocked reaction; he feared that Sarah would never
accept the child, whose presence she would regard as a permanent reproach. Long after, and too late, he realized he had done Sarali an injustice. True, she would have been shocked and hurt, ju st as she would be shocked and hurt now, if she learned about Gwen. But afterward, in a short time, Sarah's habit of coping would have taken over. For all Sarah's placidity and what Dernerest thou(~,ht of as her dullness, despite her suburban bourgeois activities-the curling Club and amateur oil painting-his wife had a core of sane solidity. He supposed it was why they had staye ' d married; why, even now, he could not contem plate divorce. Sarah would have worked something out. She would have made him squirm and suffer for a while, perhaps for a long time. But she would have agreed to the adoption, and the one who would not have suffered at all would have been the child. Sarah would have seen to that; she was that kind of person. He thought: if only . . . Demerest said aloud, "Life's full of goddamned 'if onlys.' He leveled out at six thousand feet, advancing the throttles to maintain speed. The jet whine rose in pitch. Harris had been busy changing radio frequencies and –now they had passed the handoff point-reporting to Chicago Center. He asked, "Did you say something?" Demerest shook his head. The storm's turbulence was as bad as ever, the aircraft still hein!z thrown around. "Trans America Two, we have you in radar contact," a new voice from Chicago Center rasped. Harris was still attending to communications. Vernon Demerest reasoned: So far as Gwen was concerned, lie mi(11it just as well make a decision now. All right, he decided; he would face Sarah's tears and denunciations, and perhaps her anger, but he would tell her about Gwen. He would admit his responsibdity for Gwen's pregnancy. At home, the resulting hysteria might last several days and the aftereffects for weeks or even months, during which time he would suffer mightily. But when the worst was over they would work something out. Strangely-and he supposed it showed his confidence in Sarah-he had not the slightest doubt they would. He had no idea what they might do, and a good deal would depend on Gwen. Despite what the doctor had just said about the seriousness of Gwen's injuries, Demerest had a conviction she would come through. Gwen had spunk and courage; even unconsciously she would fight to live, and eventually, whatever impairment she suffered, would adjust to it. She would also have her own ideas about the baby. She might not give it up easily or at all. Gwen was not one to be pushed around, or to be told what to do. She did her own thinking. The result might be that he would have two women on his hands-plus child-instead of one. That would take some working out! It would also pose the question: just how far would Sarah go? God!-what a mess. But now that his own first decision was taken, he had the conviction that something good might result. He reflected grimly: For all it was going to cost him, in anguish and hard cash, it better had. The altimeter showed they were maintaining six thousand feet. There would be the child, of course. Already be was beginning to think of that part in a new and different way. Naturally, he wouldn't let himself get sickly sentimental, the way some people-Anson Harris, for example-were about children; but it would be his child, after all. The experience would certainly be new. What was it Gwen had said in the car on their way to the airport tonight? … a little Vernon Demerest inside me. If we had a boy we could call him Vernon Demerest, Junior, the way Americans do. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He chuckled. Harris gJanced sideways. "What are you laughing at?" Demerest exploded. "I'm not laughing! Why the hell
would I laugh? What is there for any of us to laugh about?" Harris shrugged, "I thought I heard you.»«That's the second time you've heard things that didn't happen. After this check ride I suggest you have an ear checkup.»«There's no need to be unpleasant.»«Isn't there? Isn't there?" Dernerest came angrily alert. "Maybe what this whole situation needs is for someone to get unpleasant.»«If that's true," Harris said, "there's no one better qualified than you.»«Then when you're through with damnfool questions, start flying again, and let me talk to those duffers on the ground." Anson Harris slid his seat forward. "If you want to, why not?" He nodded. "I have it." Relinquishing the controls, Dernerest reached for the radio mike. He felt better, stronger, for a decision taken. Now he would contend with more immediate things. He let his voice grate harshly. "Chicago Center, this is Captain Demerest of Trans America Two. Are you still listening down there, or have you taken sleeping pills and quit?" "This is Chicago Center, Captain. We're listening, and no one's quit." The controllers voice held a note of reproach; Dernerest ignored it. "Then why in blazes aren't we getting action? This Right is in serious trouble. We need help.»«Stand by, please." There was a pause, then a new voice. "This is Chicago Center supervisor. Captain, Trans America Two, I heard your last transmission. Please understand we're doing everything we can. Before you came into our area we had a dozen people working, clearing other traffic. They're still doing it. We're giving you priority, a clear radio frequency, and a straight-in course for Lincoln." Dernerest barked, "It isn't enough." He paused, holding down the mike button, then continued. "Chicago supervisor, listen carefully. A straight-in course to Lincoln is no good if it ends on runway two five, or any runway except three zero. Don't tell me three zero's out of use; I've heard it already, and I know why. Now, write this down, and see that Lincoln understands it too: This airplane is heavily loaded; we'll be landing very fast. As well as that, we've structural damage including unserviceable stabilizer trim and doubtful rudder control. If we're broutzht in on two five, there'll be a broken airplane and dead people before the next hour is over. So call Lincoln, mister, and turn the screws. Tell them I don't care how they do it-they can blow apart what's blocking three zero if they have tobut we need that runway. Do you understand?" "Yes, Trans America Two, we understand very well." The supervisor's voice was unruffled, but a shade more human than before. "Your message is being passed to Lincoln now.»«Good." Dernerest held the transmit button down again. "I have another message. This one is to Mel Bakersfeld, airport general manager at Lincoln. Give him the previous message, then add this-personal from his brother-in-law: 'You helped make this trouble, you bastard, by not listening to me about airport flight insurance. Now you owe it to me and all others on this flight to climb off your penguin's butt and get that runwayT'his time the supervisor's voice was doubtful. "Trans America Two, we've copied your message. Captain, are you sure you want us to use those words~" "Chica,-,o Center," Demerest's voice slammed back, "you're damn right you'll use those words! I'm ordering you to send that message-fast, and loud, and clear." 13On ground control radio in his speeding car, Mel Bakersfeld could hear airport emergency vehicles being summoned and positioned.
"Ground control to city twenty-five." Twenty-five was the call sign of the airport fire chief. "This is city twenty-five rolling. Go ahead ground.»«Further information, Category two emer ' gency in ap– proximately thirty-five minutes. The flig,,ht in question is disabled and landing on runway three zero, if runway open. If not open, will use runway two five." Whenever they could, airport controllers avoided naming, on radio, an airline involved in any accident, or a potential one, The phrase "the fli.iht in question" was used as a cover. Airlines were touchy about such things, taking the view that the fewer times their name was repeated in that kind of context, the better. Just the same, Mel was aware, what had happened tonight would get plenty of publicity, most likely worldwide. "City twenty-five to ground control. Is the pilot requesting foam on runway?" "No foam. Repeat, no foam." The absence of foam meant that the aircraft had serviceable landing gear and would not require a belly landing. All emergency vehicles, Mel knew-pumpers, salvage trucks, and ambulances-woidd be following the fire chief, who also had a separate radio channel to communicate with them individually. When an emergency was notified, no one waited. They observed the principle: better to be ready too soon than too late. Emergency crews would now take up position between the two runways, ready to move to either as necessary. The procedure was no improvisation. Every move for situations like this was detailed in an airport emergency master plan. When there was a break in transmissions, Mel thumbed on his own radio mike. "Ground control from mobile one.»«Mobile one, go ahead.»«Has Joe Patroni, with stalled aircraft on runway three zero, been advised of new emergency situation?" "Affirmative. We are in radio touch.»«What is Patroni's report on progress?»«He expects to move the obstructing aircraft in twenty minutes.»«Is he certain?" "Ne2ative," Mel Bakersfeld waited before transmitting again. He was heading across the airfield for the second time tonight, one hand on the wheel, the other on the microphone-driving as fast as he dared in the continued blowing snow and restricted visibility. Taxi and runway lights, gUidelines in the dark, flashed by. Beside him on the car's front seat were Tanya Livingston and the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson. A few minutes ago, when Tanya had handed Mel her note about the explosion aboard Flight Two, and the flight's attempt to reach Lincoln International, Mel had broken free instantly from the crowd of Meadowood residents. With Tanya beside him, he headed for the elevators which would take him to the basement garage two floors below, and his official airport car. Mel's place now was on runway three zero, if necessary to take charge. Shouldering his way through the crowd in the main concourse, he had caught sight of the Tribune reporter and said tersely, "Come with me." He owed Tomlinson a favor in return for the reporter's tip-off about Elliott Freemantle-both the legal contract form and the lawyer's mendacious statements later, which Mel had been able to repudiate. When Tomlinson hesitated, Mel snapped, "I haven't time to waste. But I'm giving you a chance you may be sorry for not taking." Without further questioning, Tomlinson fell in step beside him. Now, as they drove, Mel accelerating ahead of taxiing aircraft where he could, Tanya repeated the substance of the news about Flight Two. "Let me get this straight," Tomlinson said. "There's only one runway long enough, and facing the right direction?" Mel said grimly, "That's the way it is. Even though there should be two." He was remembering bitterly the proposals he had made, over three successive years, for an additional runway to parallel three zero. The airport
needed it. Traffic volume and aircraft safety cried out for implementation of Mel's report, particularly since the runway would take two years to build. But other influences proved stronger. Money had not been found, the new runway had not been built. Nor had construetion-despite Mel's further pleas-yet been approved. With a good many projects, Mel could swing the Board of Airport Commissioners his way. In the case of the proposed new. runway, he had canvassed them individually and received promises of support, but later the promises were withdrawn. Theoretically, airport commissioners were independent of political pressure; in fact, they owed their appointments to the mayor and, in most cases, were political partisans themselves. If pressure was put on the mayor to delay an airport bond issue because of other projects, similarly financed and more likely to swing votes, the pressure penetrated through. In the case of the proposed new runway it not only penetrated, but three times had proved effective. Ironically, as Mel remembered earlier tonight, tripledecking of the airport's public parking lots-less necessary, but more visible-had not been held up. Briefly, and in plain words, which until now he had reserved for private sessions, Mel described the situation, including its political overtones. "I'd like to use all that as coming from you." Tomlinson's voice held the controlled excitement of a reporter who knew he was on to a good story. "May IT' There would be the devil to pay after it appeared in print, Mel realized; he could imagine the indignant telephone calls from City Hall on Monday morning. But someone should say it. The public ought to know how serious the situation was. "Go ahead," Mel said. "I guess I'm in a quoting mood.»«That's what I thought." From the far side of the car the reporter regarded Mel quizzically. "If you don't mind my saying so, you've been in great form tonight. Just now, and with the lawyer and those Meadowood people. More like your old self. I haven't heard you speak out like that in a long while." Mel kept his eyes on the taxiway ahead, waiting to pass an Eastern DC-8, which was turning left. But he was thinking: Had his demeanor of the past year or two, the absence of his old fiery spirit, been so obvious that others had noticed it also? Beside him, close enough so that Mel was conscious of her nearness and warmth, Tanya said softly, "Ali the time we're talking … about runways, the public, Meadowood, other things . . . I'm thinking about those people on Flight Two. I wonder how they're feeling, if they're afraid.»«They're afraid, all right," Mel said. "If they've any sense, and provided they know what's happening. I'd be afraid, too." He was remembering his own fear when he had been trapped in the sinking Navy airplane, long ago. As if triggered by memory, he felt a surge of pain around the old wound in his foot. In the past hour's excitement he had adjusted to ignoring it, but as always, with tiredness and overstrain, the effect forced itself on him in the end. Mel compressed his lips tightly and hoped that soon the seizure would lessen or pass. He had been waiting for another gap in ground-toground radio exchanges. As one occurred, Mel depressed his mike button once more. "Mobile one to ground control. Do you have report on how critical is the requirement of the flight in distress for runway three zero?" "Mobile one, we understand very critical. Is that Mr. Bakersfeld?" "Yes, it is.»«Stand by, sir. We're getting more information now." Still driving, nearing runway three zero, Mel waited. What came next would determine whether or not to follow the drastic course of action he was contemplating. "Ground control to mobile one. Following message just received, via Chicago Center, from flight in question. Message begins. Straight-in course to Lincoln no good if ends on runway two five. Airplane heavily loaded, will be landing very fast. . ."
The trio in the car listened tensely to the report of Vernon Demerest's message. At the words, "lf we're brought in on two live there'll be a broken airplane and dead people," Mel heard Tanya's sharp intake of breath, felt her shudder beside him. He was about to acknowledge when ground control transmitted again. "Mobile one-Mr. Bakersfeld, there is an addition to previous message, personal to you, from your brotherin-law. Can you reach a phone?" "Negative," Mel said. "Read it now, please.»«Mobile one"-he sensed the controller hesitate"the language is very personal." The controller was aware-as Mel was-that many ears around the airport would be listening. "Does it concern the present situation?" "Affirmative.»«Then read it.»«Yes, sir. Message begins. 'You helped make this trouble, you bastard, by not listening to me about airport flight insurance . . . Mel's mouth tightened, but he waited to the end, then acknowledged noncommittally, "Roger, out." He was sure that Vernon had enjoyed sending the message, as much as anything could be enjoyed aboard Flight Two at present, and would be even more pleased to learn the way it was received. The extra message was unnecessary, though. Mel had already made his decision on the basis of the first. His car was now speeding down runway three zero. The circle of floodlights and vehicles surrounding the mired A6reo-Mexican 707 jet were coming into sight. Mel noted approvingly that the runway was only lightly snow-covered. Despite the blockage of one portion, the remainder had been kept plowed. He switched his radio to the frequency of airport maintenance. "Mobile one to Snow Desk.»«This is Snow Desk." Danny Farrow's voice sounded tired, which was not surprising. "Go ahead.»«Danny," Mel said, "break the Conga Line. Send the Oshkosh plows and heavy graders across to runway three zero. They're to head for where the stuck airplane is, and await instructions. Get them started now, then call me back.»«Roger, wilco." Danny seemed about to add a question, then apparently changed his mind. A moment later, on the same frequency, the occupants of the car heard him issue orders to the Conga Line convoy leader. The Tribune reporter leaned forward around Tanya. "I'm still fitting pieces together," Tomlinson said. "That bit about flight insurance . . . Your brother-inlaw's an Air Line Pilots Association wheel, isn't he?" "Yes." Mel halted the car on the runway, a few feet short of the circle of lights around the big, stalled aircraft. There was plenty of action, he could see; beneath the aircraft fuselage, and on both sides, men were digging feverishly. The stocky form of Joe Patroni was visible directing activities. In a moment Mel would join him, after the return radio call from Danny Farrow at the Snow Desk. The reporter said thoughtfully, "I think I heard something awhile back. Didn't your brother-in-law make a big play to cancel insurance vending here-the way ALPA wants to-and you turned him down?" "I didn't turn him down. The airport board did, though I agreed with them.»«If it isn't an unfair question, has what's happened tonight made you change your mind?" Tanya protested, "Surely this isn't the time . . "I'll answer that," Mel said. "I haven't changed my mind, at least not yet. But I'm thinking about it." Mel reasoned: the time for a change of heart about flight insurance-if there was to be one-was not now, in the height of emotion and the wake of tragedy. In a day or two, what had occurred tonight would be seen in better perspective. Mel's own decision-whether to urge the airport board to revise its policy, or not-should be made then. Meanwhile, no one could deny that tonight's events added strength to Vernon Demerest's-and the Air Line Pilots Association-arguments. Possibly, Mel supposed, a compromise might be
worked out. An ALPA spokesman once confided to him that the pilots did not expect their anti-airport insurance campaign to be won, either outright or quickly; success would take years and "would have to be cut like bologna-a slice at a time." One slice at Lincoln International miglit be to prohibit use of non-supervised insurance vending machines, as some airports had already done. One state-Colorado-had outlawed the machines by Legislative Act. Other states, Mel knew, were considering similar legislation, though there was nothing to stop airports, meanwhile, from acting on their own. It was the insurance vending machine system which Mel liked least, even though D. 0. Guerrero's huge insurance policy tonight had not been bought that way. Then, if over-the-counter sales remained-for a few more years until public opinion could be molded-there would have to be more safeguards … Even though Mel had resolved not to make a firm decision, it was obvious to himself which way his reasoning was going. The radio, still tuned to airport maintenance frequency, had been busy with calls between vehicles. Now it announced, "Snow Desk to mobile one." Mel responded, "Go ahead, Danny.»«Four plows and three graders, with convoy leader, are on their way to runway three zero as instructed. What orders, please?" Mel chose his words carefully, aware that somewhere in an electronic maze beneath the control tower they were being recorded on tape. Later he might have to justify them. He also wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding. "Mobile one to Snow Desk. All plows and graders, under direction of convoy leader, will stand by near A6reo-Mexican aircraft which is blocking runway three zero. Vehicles are not, repeat not, initially to obstruct the aircraft, which in a few minutes will attempt to move under its own power. But if that attempt fafls, plows and graders will be ordered in to push the aircraft sideways, and to clear the runway. This will be done at any cost, and with all speed. Runway three zero must be open for use in approximately thirty minutes, by which time the obstructing aircraft and all vehicles must be clear. I will coordinate with air traffic control to decide at what time the plows will be ordered in, if necessary. Acknowled-e, and confirm. that these instructions are understood ' 11 Inside the car the reporter, Tomlinson, whistled softly. Tanya turned toward Mel, her eyes searching his face. On radio there were several seconds' silence, then Danny Farrow's voice. "I guess I understand. But I'd better be sure." He repeated the gist of the message, and Mel could imagine Danny sweating again, as he had been earlier. "Roger," Mel acknowledged. "But be clear about one thing. If those plows and graders go in, I'll give the order; no one else.»«It's clear," Danny radioed. "And better you than me. Mel, I guess you've figured what that equipment of ours'll do to a 707.»«It'll move it," Mel said tersely. "Right now that's the important thing." There was, Mel knew, other motorized equipment in Airport Maintenance, capable of the same kind of brute force clearing job; but using the Conga Line units, already on the runways, would be surer and faster. He signed off, and replaced the radio mike. Tomlinson said incredulously, "Move it! A six-million dollar airplane shoved sideways by snowplows! My God, you'll tear it to pieces! And afterward, the owners and insurers'll do the same to you.»«I wouldn't be surprised," Mel said. "Of course, a lot depends on your point of view. If the owners and insurers were on that other flight coming in, they might be cheering.»«Well," the reporter conceded, 'I'll grant you there are some decisions take a lot of guts." Tanya's hand reached down beside her and found Mel's. She said softly, emotion in her voice, "I'm cheering-for what you're doing now. Whatever happens after, I'll remember."
The plows and graders which Mel had summoned were coming into sight, traveling fast down the runway, roof beacons flashing. "It may never happen." Mel squeezed Tanya's hand before releasing it, then opened the car door. "We've twenty minutes to hope it won't."When Mel Bakersfeld approached him, Joe Patroni was stomping his feet in an effort to be warm; the effort was largely unsuccessful despite the fleece-lined boots and heavy parka the TWA maintenance chief was wearing. Apart from the brief time Patroni had spent on the aircraft flight deck when the Afteo-Mexican captain and first officer departed, he had been continuously out in the storm since his arrival on the scene more than three hours ago. As well as being cold and physically tired from his various exertions of the day and night, his failure to move the stranded jet despite two attempts so far, had made his temper ready to erupt. It almost did, at the news of Mel's intention. With anyone else, Joe Patroni would have stormed and ranted. Because Mel was a close friend, Patrord removed the unlighted cigar he had been chewing, and eyed Mel unbelievingly. "Shove an undamaged airplane with snowplows! Are you out of your mind?" "No," Mel said. "I'm out of runways." Mel fell a momentary depression at the thought that no one in authority, other than himself, seemed to understand the urgency of clearing three zero, at any cost. Obviously, if he went ahead as he intended, there would be few who would support his action afterward. On the other hand, Mel had not the least doubt there would be plenty of people tomorrow with hindsight-including A6reo-Mexican officials-who would assert he could have done this or that, or that Flight Two should have landed on runway two five after all. Obviously his decision was to be a lonely one. It did not change Mel's conviction that it should be made. At the si(yht of the assembled plows and graders, now deDlov –d :In line on the runway, to their ritTht, Patroni dropped his cigar altogether. As he produced another he growled, "I'll save you from your own insanity. Keep those Dinky Toys of yours out of my hair and away from this airplane. In fifteen minutes, maybe less, I'll drive it out." Met shouted to make himself heard above the wind and roaring engines of vehicles around them. "Joe, let's be clear about one thing. When the tower tells us we're running out of time, that's it; there'll be no argument. People's lives are involved on the flight that's coming in. If you've engines running, they're to be shut down. At the same time all equipment and the men must move clear immediately. Make sure in advance that all your people understand. The plows will move on my order. If and when they do, they won't waste time." Patroni nodded gloomily. Despite his outburst, Mel thought, the maintenance chief's usual cocky self-assurance seemed abated. Mel returned to his car. Tanya and the reporter, huddled in their coats, had been standing outside, watching the work of digging around the aircraft. They got into the car with him, grateful for the warmth inside. Once more, Mel called ground control on radio, this time asking for the tower watch chief. After a brief pause, the tower chief's voice came on the air. In a few words Met explained his intention. What he sought from air traffic control now was an estimate of bow long he could wait before ordering the plows and graders to move. Once they did, it would take only minutes to have the obstructing aircraft clear. "The way it looks now," the tower chief said, "the flight in question will be here sooner than we thought. Chicago Center expects to hand over to our approach control in twelve minutes from now. After that we'll be controlling the flight for eight to ten minutes before landing, which would make time of touchdown, at latest, 0128." Mel checked his watch in the dim light from the dash. It showed 1: 0 1 A .M. "A choice of which runway to use," the tower chief said, "will have to be made no later than five minutes
before landing. After that, they'll be committed; we can't turn them." So What it meant, Mel calculated, was that his own final decision must be made in another seventeen minutes, perhaps less, depending on the handover time from Chicago Center to Lincoln approach control. There was even less time remaining than he had told Joe Patroai. Mel found he, too, was beginning to sweat. Should lie warn Patroni again, informing him of the reduced time? Mel decided not. The maintenance chief was already directing operations at the fastest pace he could. Nothing would be gained by harassing him further. "Mobile one to ground control," Mel radioed. "I'll need to be kept informed of exact status of the approaching flight. Can we hold this frequency clear?" "Affirmative," the tower chief said. "We've already moved regular traffic to another frequency. We'll keep you informed." Mel acknowledged and signed off. Beside him, Tanya asked, "What happens now?" "We wait." Mel checked his watch again. A minute went by. Two. Outside they could see men working, still digging feverishly near the front and on each side of the mired aircraft. With a flash of headlights, another truck arrived; men jumped down from its tailgate and hastened to join the others. Joe Patroni's stocky figure was moving constantly, instructing and exhorting. The plows and graders were still in line, waiting. In a way, Mel thought, like vultures. The reporter, Tomlinson, broke the silence inside the car. "I was just thinking. When I was a kid, which isn't all that long ago, most of this place was fields. In summer there were cows and com and barley. There was a grass airfield; small; nobody thought it would amount to much. If anyone traveled by air, they used the airport in the city.»«That's aviation," Tanya said. She felt a momentary relief at being able to think and talk of something other than what they were waiting for. She went on, "Somebody told me once that working in aviation makes a lifetime seem longer because everything changes so often and so fast." Tomlinson objected, "Not everything's fast. With airports, the changes aren't fast enough. Isn't it true, Mr. Bakersfeld, that within three to four years there'll be chaos?" "Chaos is always relative," Mel said; the focus of his mind was still on the scene he could see through the car windshield. "In a good many ways we manage to live with it.»«Aren't you dodging the question?" "Yes," he conceded. "I suppose I am." It was scarcely surprising, Mel thought. He was less concerned with aviation philosophy at this moment than with the immediacy of what was happening outside. But he sensed Tanya's need for a lessening of tension, even if illusory his awareness of her feelings was part of the empathy they seemed increasingly to share. He reminded himself, too, that it was a Trans America flight they were waiting for, and which might land safely or might not. Tanya was a part of Trans America, had helped with the flight's departure. In a real sense, of the three of them she had the most direct involvement. With an effort he concentrated on what Tomlinson had said. "It's always been true," Mel declared, "that in aviation, progress in the air has been ahead of progress on the ground. We sometimes think we'll catch up; in the mid-1960s we almost did but by and large we never do. The best we can manage, it seems, is not to lag too far behind." The reporter persisted, "What should we do about airports? What can we do?" "We can think more freely, with more imagination, for one thing. We should get rid of the railway station mind.»«You believe we still have it?" Mel nodded. "Unfortunately, in a good many places. All our early airports were imitation railway stations
because designers had to draw on experience from somewhere. and railroad experience was all they had. Aftetward, the habit remained. It's the reason, nowadays, we have so many 'straig ht line' airports, where terminals stretch on and on, and passengers must walk for mHes." Tomlinson asked, "Isn't some of that changing?" "Slowly, and in just a few places." As always, despite the pressures of the moment, Mel was warming to his theme. "A few airports are being built as circles-like doughnuts with car parking inside, instead of somewhere out beyond; with minimum distances for people to walk with aids like high-speed horizontal elevators; with airplanes brought close to passengers instead of the other way around. What it means is that airports are finally being thought of as special and distinct also as units instead of separate components. Creative ideas, even outlandish ones, are being listened to. Los Angeles is proposing a big, offshore seadrome; Chicago, a manmade airport island in Lake Michigan; nobody's scoffing. American Airlines has a plan for a giant hydraulic lift to stack airplanes one above the other for loading and unloading. But the changes are slow, they're not coordinated; we build airports like an unimaginative, patchwork quilt. It's as if phone subscribers designed and made their own telephones, then plugged them into a world-wide system." The radio cut abruptly across Mel's words. "Ground control to mobile one and city twenty-five. Chicago Center now estimates handoff of the flight in question to Lincoln approach control will be 0117." Mel's watch showed 1:06 A.m. The message meant that Flight Two was already a minute earlier than the tower chief had forecast. A minute less for Joe Patroni to work only eleven minutes to Mel's own decision. "Mobile one, is there any change in the status of runway three zero?" "Negative; no change." Mel wondered: was he cutting things too fine? He was tempted to direct the snowplows and graders to move now, then restrained himself. Responsibility was a two-way street, especially when it came to ordering the near-destruction of a six-million dollar aircraft on the ground. There was still a chance that Joe Patroni might make it, though with every second the possibility was lessening. In front of the stalled 707, Mel could see, some of the floodlights and other equipment were being moved clear. But the aircraft's engines had not yet been started. "Those creative people," Tomlinson queried, "the ones you were talking about. Who are they?" With only half his mind, Mel acknowledged, "It's hard to make a list." He was watching the scene outside. The remainder of the vehicles and equipment in front of the stalled A6reo-Mexican 707 bad now been moved clear, and Joe Patroni's stocky, snow-covered figure was climbing the boarding ramp, positioned near the aircraft's nose. Near the top, Patroni stopped, turned, and gestured; he appeared to be shouting to others below. Now Patroni opened the front fuselage door and went inside; almost at once another, slighter figure climbed the ramp and followed him. The aircraft door slammed. Others below trundled the ramp away. Inside the car, the reporter asked again, "Mr. Bakersfeld, could you name a few of those people-the most imaginative ones about airports and the future?" "Yes," Tanya said, "couldn't you?" Mel thought: it would be like a parlor game while the house was burning. All right, he decided if Tanya wanted him to, he would play. "I can think of some," Mel said. "Fox of Los Angeles; Joseph Foster of Houston, now with ATA of America. Alan Boyd in government; and Thomas Sullivan, Port of New York Authority. In the airlines: Halaby of Pan Am; Herb Godfrey of United. In Canada, John C. Parkin, In Europe-Pierre Cot of Air France; Count Castell in Germany. There are others.»«Including Mel Bakersfeld," Tanya injected. "Aren't you forgetting him?" Tomlinson, who had been making notes, grunted. "I 'already put him down. It goes without saying."
Mel smiled. But did it, he wondered, go without saying? Once, not long ago, the statement would have been true; but he knew that on the national scene he had slipped from view. When that happened, when you left the mainstream for whatever reason, you were apt to be forgotten quickly; and later, even if you wanted to, sometimes you never did get back. It was not that he was doing a less important job at Lincoln International, or doing it less well; as an airport general manager, Mel knew he was as good as ever, probably better. But the big contribution which he had once seemed likely to make no longer was in view. He realized that this was the second time tonight the same thought had occurred to him. Did it matter? Did he care? He decided; Yes, he did! "Look!" Tanya cried out. "They're starting the engines." The reporter's head came up; Mel felt his own excitement sharpen. Behind number three engine of the A6reo-Mexican 707, a puff of white-gray smoke appeared. Briefly it intensified, then whirled away as the engine fired and held. Now snow was streaming rear-ward in the jet blast. A second puff of smoke appeared behind number four engine, a moment later to be whisked away, snow following. "Ground control to mobile one and city twenty-five." Within the car the radio voice was so unexpected that Mel felt Tanya give a startled jump beside him. "Chicago Center advises revised handoff time of the flight in question will be 0 116 seven minutes from now.» Flight Two, Mel realized, was still coming in faster than expected. It meant they had lost another minute. Again Mel held his watch near the light of the dash. On the soft ground near the opposite side of the runway from their car, Patroni now had number two engine started. Number one followed. Mel said softly, "They could still make it." Then he remembered that all engines had been started twice before tonight, and both attempts to blast the stuck airplane free had failed. In front of the mired 707 a solitary figure with flashlight signal wands had moved out ahead to where he could be seen from the aircraft flight deck. The man with the wands was holdina them above his head, indicating "all clear." Mel could hear and feel the jet engines' thrum, but sensed they had not yet been advanced in power. Six minutes left. Why hadn't Patroni opened up? Tanya said tensely, "I don't think I can bear the waiting." The reporter shifted in his seat. "I'm sweating too." Joe Patroni was opening up! This was it! Mel could hear and feel the greater all-encom passing roar of engines. Behind the stalled A6reo-Mexican jet, great gusts of snow were blowing wildly into the darkness beyond the runway lights. "Mobile one," the radio demanded sharply, "this is ground control. Is there any change in status of runway three zero?" Patror~, Mel calculated by his watch, had three minutes left. "The airplane's still stuck." Tanya was peering intently through the car windshield. "They're using aU the engines, but it isn't moving." It was straining forward, though; that much Mel could see, even through the blowing snow. But Tanya was right. The aircraft wasn't moving. The snowplows and heavy graders had shifted closer together, their beacons flashing brightly. "Hold it!" Mel said on radio. "Hold it! Don't commit that flight coming in to runway two five. One way or the other, there'll be a change in three zero status any moment now." He switched the car radio to Snow Desk frequency, ready to activate the plows.14Ordinarily, after midnight, pressures in air traffic control relented slightly. Tonight they hadn't. Because of the storm, airlines at Lincoln International were continuing to dispatch and receive flights which were hours late. More often than not, their lateness was added to by the general runway and taxiway congestion still prevailing. Most members of the earlier eight-hour watch in air traffic control had ended their shift at midnight and gone wearily home. Newcomers on duty had taken their place. A few controllers, because of staff shortage and illness of others, had been assigned a spreadover shift which would end at 2 A .m. They included the tower watch chief; Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor; and Keith Bakersfeld. Since the emotion-charged session with his brother, which ended abruptly and abortively an hour and a half ago, Keith had sought relief of mind by concentrating intensely on the radar screen in front of him. If he could maintain his concentration, he thought, the remaining time-the last he would ever have to fill-would pass quickly. Keith had continued handling east arrivals, working with a young assistant-a radar handoff man –seated on his left. Wayne Tevis was still supervising, riding his castor-equipped stool around the control room, propelled by his Texan boots, though less energetically, as Tevis's own duty shift neared an end. In one sense, Keith had succeeded in his concentration; yet in a strange way he bad not. It seemed almost as if his mind had split into two levels, like a duplex, and he was able to be in both at once On one level he was directing east arrivals traffic-at the moment, without problems. On the other, his thoughts were personal and introspective. It was not a condition which could last, but perhaps, Keith thought, his mind was like a light bulb about to fail and, for its last few minutes, burning brightest. The personal side of his thoughts was dispassionate now, and calmer than before; perhaps the session with Mel had achieved that, if nothing more. All things seemed ordained and settled. Keith's duty shift would end; he would leave this place; soon after, all waiting and all anguish would be over. He had the conviction that his own life and others' were already severed; he no longer belonged to Natalie or Mel, or Brian and Theo . . . or they to him. He belonged to the already dead-to the Redfems who had died together in the wreck of their Beech Bonanza; to little Valerie . . . her family. That was it! Why had he never thought of it that way before; realized that his own death was a debt he owed the Redferns? With continued dispassion, Keith wondered if he were insane; people who chose suicide were said to be, but either way it made no difference. His choice was between torment and peace; and before the light of morning, peace would come. Once more, as it had intermittently in the past few hours, his hand went into his pocket, fingering the key to room 224 of the O'Hagan Inn. All the while, on the other mental level, and with traces of his old flair, he coped with cast arrivals. Awareness of the crisis with Trans America Flight Two came to Keith gradually. Lincoln air traffic control had been advised of Flight Two's intention to return there-almost an hour ago, and seconds after Captain Anson Harris's decision was made known. Word had come by "hot line" telephone directly from Chicago Center supervisor to the tower watch chief, after similar notification through Cleveland and Toronto centers. Initially there had been little to do at Lincoln beyond advising the airport management, through the Snow Desk, of the flight's request for runway three zero. Later, when Flight Two had been taken over from Cleveland, by Chicago Center, more specific preparations were begun. Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor, was alerted by the
tower chief, who went personally to the radar room to inform Tevis of Flight Two's condition, its estimated arrival time, and the doubt about which runway-two five or three zero-was to be used for landing. At the same time, ground control was notifying airport emergency services to stand by and, shortly after, to move with their vehicles onto the airfield. A ground controller talked by radio telephone with Joe Patroni to check that Patroni had been advised of the urgent need for runway three zero. He had. Contact was then established, on a reserve radio frequency, between the control tower and the flight deck of the A6reo-Mexican jet which blocked the runway. The setup was to ensure that when Patroni was at the air– craft's controls, there could be instant two-way communication, if needed. In the radar room, when he bad listened to the tower chief's news, Wayne Tevis's initial reaction was to glance at Keith. Unless duties were changed around, it would be Keith, in charge of east arrivals, who would accept Flight Two from Chicago Center, and monitor the flight in. Tevis asked the tower chief quietly, "Should we take Keith off; put someone else on?" The older man hesitated. He remembered the earlier emergency tonight involving the Air Force KC-135. He bad removed Keith from duty then, on a pretext, and afterward wondered if he had been too hasty. When a man was teeter-tottering between self-assurance and the loss of it, it was easy to send the scales the wrong way without intending to. The tower chief had an uneasy feeling, too, of having blundered into something private between Keith and Mel Bakersfeld when the two of them were talking earlier in the corridor outside. He could have left them alone for a few minutes longer, but hadn't. The tower watch chief was tired himself, not only from the trying shift tonight, but from others which preceded it. He remembered reading somewhere recently that new air traffic systems, being readied for the mid-1970s, would halve controllers' work loads, thereby reducing occupational fatigue and nervous breakdowns. The tower c1iief remained skeptical. He doubted if, in air traffic control, pressures would ever lighten; if they eased in one way, he thought, they would increase in another. It made him sympathize with those who, like Keith-still gaunt, pate, strained-had proved victims of the system. Still in an undertone, Wayne Tevis repeated, "Do I take him off, or not?" The tower chief shook his head. Low-voiced, he answered, "Let's not push it. Keep Keith on, but stay close." It was then that Keith, observing the two with heads together, guessed that something critical was coming up. He was, after all, an old hand, familiar with signals of impending trouble. Instinct told him, too, that the supervisors' conversation was in part, about himself. He could understand why. Keith had no doubt he would be relieved from duty in a few minutes from now, or shifted to a less vital radar position. He found himself not caring. It was a surprise when Tevis-without shuffling duties-began warning all watch positions of the expected arrival of Trans America Tw'o, in distress, and its priority handling. Departure control was cautioned: Route all departures well clear of the flight's anticipated route in. To Keith, Tevis expounded the runway problem-the uncertainty as to which runway was to be used, and the need to postpone a decision until the last possible moment. "You work out your own plan, buddy boy," Tevis instructed in his nasal Texas drawl. "And after the handover, stay with it. We'll take everything else off your hands." At first, Keith nodded agreement, no more perturbed than he had been before. Automatically, he began to calculate the flight pattern he would use. Such plans were always worked out mentally. There was never time to commit them to paper; besides, the need for improvisation usually turned up.
As soon as he received the flight from Chicago Center, Keith reasoned, he would head it generally toward runway three zero, but with sufficient leeway to swing the aircraft left-though without drastic turns at low altitude-if runway two five was forced on them as the final choice. He calculated: He would have the aircraft under approach control for approximately ten minutes. Tevis had already advised him that not until the last five, probably, would they know for sure about the runway. It was slicing things fine, and there would be sweating in the radar room, as well as in the air. But it could be managed-just. Once more, in his mind, Keith went over the planned flight path and compass headings. By then, more definite reports had begun to filter, unofficially, through the tower. Controllers passed information to each other as work gaps permitted . . . The flight had had a mid-air explosion. It was limping in with structural damage and injured people … Control of the airplane was in doubt. The pilots needed the longest runway-which might or might not be available … Captain Demerest's warning was repeated: … on two five a broken airplane and dead people . . . The captain had sent a savage message to the airport manager. Now, the manager was out on three zero, trying to get the runway cleared . . . The time available was shortening. Even among the controllers, to whom tension was as commonplace as traffic, there was now a shared nervous anxiety. Keith's radar handoff man, seated alongside, passed on the news which came to him in snatches. As he did, Keith's awareness and apprehension grew. He didn't want this, or any part of it! There was nothing he sought to prove, or could; nothing he might retrieve, even if he handled the situation well. And if he didn't, if he mishandled it, he might send a planeload of people to their deaths, as lie had done once before. Across the radar room, on a direct line, Wayne Tevis took.a telephone call from the tower watch chief. A few minutes ago the chief bad gone one floor above, into the tower cab, to remain beside the ground controller. Hanging up, Tevis propelled his chair alongside Keith. "The old man just had word from center. Trans America Two-three minutes from handoff." The supervisor moved on to departure control, checking that outward traffic was being routed clear of the approaching flight. The man on Keith's left reported that out on the airfield they were still trying frantically to shift the stranded jet blocking runway three zero. They had the engines running, but the airplane wouldn't move. Keith's brother (tbe handoff man said) had taken charge, and if the airplane wouldn't move on its own, was going to smash it to pieces to clear the runway. But everybody was asking: was there time? If Mel thought so, Keith reasoned, there probably was. Mel coped, he managed things; he always had. Keith couldn't cope-at least not always, and never in the same way as Mel. It was the difference between them. Almost two minutes had gone by. Alongside Keith, the handoff man said quietly, "They're coming on the scope." On the edge of the radarscope Keith could see the double blossom radar distress signal-unmistakably Trans America Two. Keith wanted out! He couldn't do it! Someone else must take over; Wayne Tevis could himself. There was still time. Keith swung away from the scope looking for Tevis. The supervisor was at departure control, his back toward Keith. Keith opened his mouth to call. To his horror, no words came. He tried again . . . the same. He realized: It was as in the dream, his nightmare; his voice had failed him . . . But this was no dream; this was reality! Wasn't it? … Still struggling to articulate, panic gripped him. On a panel above the scope, a flashing white light indicated that Chicago Center was calling. The handoff man picked up a direct line phone and instructed, "Go
ahead, center." He turned a selector, cutting in a speaker overhead so that Keith could hear. "Lincoln, Trans America Two is thirty miles southeast of the airport. He's on a heading of two five zero.»«Roger, center. We have him in radar contact. Change him to our frequency." The handoff man replaced the phone. Center, they knew, would now be instructing the flight to change radio frequency, and probably wishing them good luck. It usually happened that way when an aircraft was in trouble; it seemed the least that anyone could do from the secure comfort of the ground. In this isolated, comfortably warm room of low-key sounds, it was difficult to accept that somewhere outside, high in the night and darkness, buffeted by wind and storm, its survival in doubt, a crippled airliner was battling home. The east arrivals radio frequency came alive. A harsh voice, unmistakably Vernon Demerest's; Keith hadn't thought about that until this moment. "Lincoln approach control, this is Trans America Two, maintai i g six thousand feet, heading two five zero." The handoff man was waiting expectantly. It was Keith's moment to acknowledge, to take over. But he wanted out! Wayne Tevis was still turned away! Keith's speech wouldn't come. "Lincoln approach control," the voice from Trans America Two grated again, "where in hell are you?" Where in hell … Why wouldn't Tevis turn? Keith seethed with sudden rage. Damn Tevis! Damn air traffic control! Damn his dead father, Wild Blue Bakersfeld, who led his sons into a vocation Keith hadn't wanted to begin with! Damn Mel, with his infuri– ating self-sufficient competence! Damn here and nowl Damn evervthing! . . . The handoft man was looking at Keith curiously. At any moment Trans America Two would call again. Keith knew that he was trapped. Wondering if his voice would work, he keyed his mike. "Trans America Two," Keith said, "this is Lincoln approach control. Sorry about the delay. We're still hoping for runway three zero; we shall know in three to five minutes." A growled acknowledgment, "Roger, Lincoln. Keep us informed." Keith was concentrating now; the extra level of his mind had ctosed. He forgot Tevis, his father, Mel, himself. All else was excluded but the problem of Flight Two. He radioed clearly and quietly, "Trans America Two, you are now twenty-five miles east of the outer marker. Begin descent at your discretion. Start a right turn to heading two six zero . . ."One floor above Keith, in the glass-walled tower cab, the ground controller had advised Mel Bakersfeld that handoff from Chicago Center had occurred. Mel radioed back, "Snowplows and graders have been ordered to move, and clear the A6reo-Mexican aircraft from the runway. Instruct Patroni to shut down all engines immediately. Tell him-if he can, get clear himself; if not, hold on tight. Stand by for advice when runway is clear." On a second frequency, the tower chief was already informing Joe Patroni. 15Even before it happened, Joe Patroni knew he was running out of time. He had deliberately not started the engines of the Afteo-Mexican 707 until the latest possible moment, wanting the work of clearing under and around the aircraft to continue as long as it could. When he realized that he could wait no longer, Patroni made a final inspection. What he saw gave him grave misgivings.
The landing gear was still not as clear from surrounding earth, mud, and snow as it should be. Nor were the trenches, inclining upward from the present level of the main wheels to the hard surface of the nearby taxiway, as wide or deep as he had wanted. Another fifteen minutes would have done it. Patroni knew he didn't have the time. Reluctantly he ascended the boarding ramp, to make his second attempt at moving the mired aircraft, now with himself at the controls. He shouted to Ingram, the A6rco-Mexican foreman, "Get everybody clear! We're starting up." From under the aircraft, figures began to move out. Snow was still falling, but more lightly than for several hours. Joe Patroni called again from the boarding.ramp. "I need somebody with me on the flight deck, but let's keep the weight down. Send me a skinny guy who's cockpit qualified." He let himself into the aircraft's forward door. Inside, through the flight deck windows, Patroni could see Mel Bakersfeld's airport car, its bright yellow coloring reflected through the darkness. The car was parked on the runway, to the left. Near it was the line of snowplows and graders-a reminder, if he needed one, that he had only a few minutes more. The maintenance chief had reacted with shocked disbelief when Mel announced his plan to shove the A6reo-Mexican aircraft clear of runway three zero by force, if necessary. The reaction was natural, but was not through indifference to the safety of those aboard Trans America Flight Two. Joe Patroni lived with thoughts of aircraft safety, which was the object of his daily work, It was simply that the idea of reducing an undamaged aircraft to a pile of scrap metal, or something close to it, was near-impossible for him to grasp. In Patroni's eyes, an aircraft-any aircraft-represented devotion, skill, engineering know-how, hours of labor, and sometimes love. Almost anything was better than its deliberate destruction. Almost anything. Patroni intended to save the airplane if he could. Behind him, the fuselage door opened, and slammed closed. A young mechanic, small and spare, came forward to the flight deck, shedding snow. Joe Patroni had already slipped off his parka and was strapping himself into the left seat. "What's your name, son?" "Rolling, sir." Patroni chuckled. "That's what we're trying to get this airplane doin'. Maybe you're an omen." As the mechanic removed his own parka and slid into the right seat, Patroni looked through the window behind his left shoulder. Outside, the boarding ramp was being trundled clear. The interphone chimed, and Patroni answered. The foreman, Ingram, was calling from below. "Ready to start when you are." Joe Patroni glanced sideways. "All set, son?" The mechanic nodded. "Number three starter switch-ground start." The mechanic snapped a switch; Patroni ordered on interphone, "Pressurize the manifold!" From a power cart below, air under pressure whined. The maintenance chief moved a start level to "idle"; the young mechanic, monitoring instruments, reported, "Light-up on number three." The engine note became a steady roar. In smooth succession, engines four, two, and one followed. On interphone, Ingram's voice was diminished by a background of wind and jet whine. "Power cart's clear. So's everything else down here.»«Okay," Patroni shouted back. "Disconnect interphone, and get the hell clear yourself." He told his cockpit companion, "Sit tight, son, and hang on." The maintenance chief shifted his cigar, which contrary to regulations he had lighted a.few minutes earlier, so that it was now jauntily in a corner of his mouth. Then, with chunky fingers spread, he eased the four main throttles forward. With power at midpoint, the clamor of all four engines grew.
Ahead of the aircraft, in the snow, they could see a ground crewman with raised, lighted signal wands. Patroni grinned, "If we come out fast, I hope that guy's a good runner." All brakes were off, flaps slightly down to engender lift. Tbe mechanic held the control yoke back. Patroni worked the rudder controls alternately, hoping by sideways strain to help the airplane forward. Glancing left, he saw Mel Bakersfeld's car was still in position. From an earlier calculation, Joe Patroni knew there could be only minutes-perhaps less than a minute-lef t. Now, power was past three quarters. From the highpitched note of engines, he could tell it was more power than the A6reo-Mexican captain had used during the earlier attempt to get free. Vibration told why. Normally, at this setting, the airplane would be unimpeded, bowling fast down a runway. Because it was not, it was shaking severely, with every portion of its upper area straining forward, resisting the anchoring effect of the wheels below. The airplane's inclination to stand on its nose was unmistakable. The mechanic glanced uneasily sideways. Patroni saw the glance and grunted. "She'd better come out now, or she's a dead duck." But the aircraft was not moving. Obstinately, as it had for hours, and through two earlier attempts, it was remaining stuck. In the hope of rocking the wheels free, Patroni slackened engine power, then increased it. Still the aircraft failed to move. Joe Patroni's cigar, moist from previous chewing, had gone out. Disgustedly, he flung it down and reached for another. His breast pocket was empty; the cigar had been his last. He swore, and returned his right hand to the throttles. Moving them still farther forward, he snarled, "Come out! Come out, you son of a bitch!" "Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic warned. "She won't take much more." Abruptly, the overhead radio speakers came alive. The tower chief's voice. "Joe Patroni, aboard A6reo– Mexican. This is ground control. We have a message from Mr. Bakersfeld: 'There is no more time. Stop all engines.' Repeat-stop all engines." Glancing out, Patroni saw the plows and graders were already moving. They wouldn't close in, he knew, until the aircraft engines were stopped. But he remembered Mel's warniDg-. When the tower tells us we're out of time, there'll be no argument. He thought: Who's arguing? The radio again, urgently: "Joe Patroni, do you read? Acknowledge.»«Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic shouted. "Do you hear? We have to shut down!" Patroni shouted back, "Can't hear a danin thing, son. Guess there's too much noise." As any seasoned maintenance man knew, you always had a minute more than the panic-prone sales types in the front office said you had. In the worst way, though, he needed a cigar. Suddenly Joe Patroni remembered-hours ago, Mel Bakersfeld bet him a box of cigars he couldn't get this airplane free tonight. He called across the cockpit, "I gotta stake in this, too. Let's go for broke." In a single, swift motion he shoved the throttles forward to their limit. The din and vibration had seemed great before; now they were overwhelming. The airplane shuddered as if it might fall apart. Joe Patroni kicked the rudder pedals hard again. Around the cockpit, engine warning lights flashed on. Afterward, the mechanic described the effect as "like a pinball machine at Vegas." Now, alarm in his voice, he called, "Exhaust gas temperature seven hundred." The radio speakers were still emitting orders, including something about Patroni getting clear himself. He supposed he would have to. IFEs hand tensed to close the throttles. Suddenly the airplane shifted forward. At first, it moved slowly. Then, with startling speed, they were hurtling toward the taxiway. The mechanic shouted a
warning. As Patroni snatched back all four throttles, he commandcd, "Haps up!" Glancing below and ahead, both men had an impression of blurred figures running. Fifty feet from the taxiway, they were still moving fast. Unless turned promptly, the airplane would cross the hard surface and roll into piled snow on the other side. As he felt the tires reach pavement, Patroni ap– plied left brakes hard and slammed open the two starboard throttles. Brakes and engines responded, and the aircraft swung sharply left, in a ninety-degree arc. Halfway around, he slid back the two throttles and ap– plied all brakes together. The A6reo-Mexican 707 rolled forward briefly, then slowed and halted. Joe Patroni grinned. They had stopped with the aircraft parked neatly, in the center of the taxiway paralleling runway three zero. The runway, two hundred feet away, was no longer blocked.In Mel Bakersfeld's car, on the runway, Tanya cried, "He's done it! He's done it!" Beside her, Mel was already radioing the Snow Desk, ordering plows and graders to get clear. Seconds earlier, Mel had been calling angrily to the tower, demanding for the third time that Joe Patroni stop engines immediately. Mel had been assured the messages were relayed, but Patroni ignored them. The heat of Mel's anger still remained; even now, he could cause Joe Patroni serious trouble for the latter's failure to obey, or even acknowledge, an airport management order in a matter of urgency and safety. But Mel knew he wouldn't. Patroni had gotten away with it, and no one with sense quarreled with that kind of success. Also, Mel knew, after tonight there would be one more item to add to the Patroni legend. The plows and graders were already moving. Mel switched his radio back to tower frequency. "Mobile one to ground control. Obstructing aircraft has been moved from runway three zero. Vehicles following. I am inspecting for debris." Mel shone a spotlight from his car over the runway surface, Tanya and the reporter, Tomlinson, peered with him. Sometimes incidents like tonight's resulted in work crews leaving tools or debris-a hazard to aircraft taking off or landing. The light showed nothing beyond an irregular surface of snow. The last of the snowplows was turning off at the nearest intersection. Mel accelerated and followed. All three in the car were emotionally drained from tensions of the past few minutes, but aware that a greater cause for tension was still to come. As they swung left, behind the plows, Mel reported, "Runway three zero clear and open." 16Trans Ameiica Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, was ten miles out, in cloud, at ftfteen hundred feet. Anson Harris, after another brief respite, had resumed flying. The Lincoln International approach controller-with a voice vaguely familiar to Vernon Demerest, though he hadn't stopped to think about it-had guided them thus far on a series of courses, with gentle turns as they descended. They had been, both pilots realized, skillfully positioned so that a final commitment toward either of the two possible runways could be made without major maneuvering. But the commdtment would have to be made at any moment. Tension of the pilots grew as that moment approached. A few minutes earlier, Second Officer Cy Jordan had returned to the flight deck, on Demerest's orders, to prepare an estimate of gross landing weight, allowing for the fuel they had used, and that remaining. Now, having done everything else necessary at his ffight engineer's
position, Jordan bad gone back to his emergency landing station in the forward passenger compartment. Anson Harris, aided by Demerest, had already gone through emergency trim procedures in preparation for landing with their jammed stabilizer. As they finished, Dr. Compagno appeared briefly behind them. "I thought you'd like to know-your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is holding her own. If we can get her to a hospital soon, I'm fairly sure she'll come through." Demerest, finding it hard to conceal his sudden emotion, had resorted to not speaking. It was Anson Harris who balf-turned and acknowledged, "Thank you, Doctor. We've only a few minutes to go." In both passenger cabins, all precautions which could be taken were complete. The injured, with the exception of Gwen Meighen, had been strapped in seats. Two of the doctors had stationed themselves on either side of Gwen, ready to support her as they landed. Other passengers had been shown how to brace themselves for what might prove an exceptionally heavy landing, with unknown consequences. The old lady stowaway, Mrs. Quonsett, a little frightened at last, was tightly clutching the hand of her oboe player friend. Weariness, too, was creeping over her from the exertions of an exceedingly full day. A short time earlier her spirits had been buoyed by a brief message from Captain Demerest, relayed through a stewardess. The captain thanked her, the stewardess said, for what she had done to help; since Mrs. Quonsett had kept her part of their bargain, after they landed Captain Demerest would keep his by arranging passage for her to New York . How wonderful of that dear man, Ada Ouonsett thought, to remember that when he had so much else to think of! . . . But now she wondered: would she be around to make the trip at all? Judy, the niece of Customs Inspector Standish, bad once more been holding the baby whose parents were in the seats beside her. Now she passed the child back to its mother. The baby-least concerned of anyone aboard the airplane-was asleep. On the flight deck, in the right-hand seat, Vernon Dem– erest checked the weight information the second officer had given him against a weight-airspeed plaque on the pilots' instrument panel. He announced tersely, "Bug speed 150 knots." It was the speed at which they must pass over the airfield boundary, allowing both for weight and the jammed stabilizer. Harris nodded. Looking glum, he reached out to set a warning pointer on his airspeed indicator. Demerest did the same. Even on the longest runway their landing would be risky. The speed-more than 170 miles per hour-was diabolically fast for landing. Both pilots knew that it would mean an exceptionally long run after touchdown, with slow deceleration because of their heavy weight. Thus their weight became a dual liability. Yet to approach at anything less than the speed which Demerest had just computed would be suicidal; the aircraft would stall, and plummet earthward out of control. Demerest reached for his radio mike. Before he could transmit, the voice of Keith Bakersfeld announced, "Trans America Two, turn right on heading two eight five. Runway three zero is open.»«Jesus C hrist!" Dernerest said. "And about time!" He keyed his mike and acknowledged. Together, both pilots ran through a pre-landing check list. There was a "thud" through the airplane as their landing gear went down. "I'm going in low," Harris said, "and we'll touch down early. We're still going to need every bit of real estate they have down there." Demerest grunted agreement. He was peering ahead, straining to penetrate cloud and darkness, to catch a glimpse of the airport lights which must be visible soon. His thoughts, despite his own outward calm, were on the damage to the plane. They still didn't know exactly how bad it was, or how it might have worsened during the rough flight in. There was that damned great hole; then there would be the heavy, fast landing … God!– the whole tail assembly might come ojy . . . If it does,
Dernerest thought, at a hundred and fifty knots we've had it . . . That son-of-a-bitch who had set obF the bomb! A pity he had died! Dernerest would like to have his hands on him now, to personally rip out his stinking life … Beside him, Anson Harris, making an Instrument Landing System approach, increased the rate of descent from seven hundred to eight hundred feet per minute. Dernerest wished desperately he were flying himself. With anyone else but Harris-with a younger or less senior captain-Demerest would have taken full command. As it was, he couldn't fault Harris for a thing … He hoped the landing would be the same way … His thoughts went back to the passenger cabin. Gwen, we're almost in! Keep on living! His conviction about their child, that he and Gwen and Sarah would work out something, was as strong as ever. On radio, Keith Bakersfeld's voice reported, "Trans America Two, your course and descent look fine. There is medium to light snow on runway. Wind northwest, thirty knots. You are number one to land." Seconds later they emerged from cloud to see runway lights dead ahead. " Lincoln approach control," Demerest radioed, "we have the runway in sight.»«Roger, Flight Two." Relief in the controller's voice was unmistakable. "The tower clears you to land; monitor their frequency when ready. Good luck, and out." Vernon Dernerest clicked his mike button twice-an airman's shorthand "thank you." Anson Harris ordered crisply, "Landing lights on. Fifty degrees flap." Demerest complied. They were coming down fast. Harris warned, "I may need help with rudder.»«Right." Dernerest set his feet on the rudder pedals. When speed came off, the rudder-because of the destroyed boost mechanism-would be stiff, like a car's power steering which had failed, only more so. After landing, both pilots might need to exert force, together, to maintain directional control. They zoomed over the airfield edge, runway lights strung ahead like strands of converging pearls. On either side were piled banks of snow; beyond them, darkness. Harris had made his approach as low as he dared; the nearness to the ground revealed their exceptional speed. To both pilots, the mile and three quarters of runway in front had never looked shorter. Harris flared out, leveling the aircraft, and closed all four throttles. The jet thrum lessened; an urgent, shrieking wind replaced it. As they crossed the runway's edge, Vernon Demerest had a blurred impression of clustered emergency vehicles which would, he knew, follow them down the runway. He thought: We damned well might need them! Hang on, Gwen! They were still floating, their speed scarcely diminished. Then the aircraft was down. Heavily. Still traveling fast. Swiftly, Harris raised wing spoilers and slammed thrust reverse levers upward. With a roar, the jet engines reversed themselves, their force-acting as a brake –now exerted in an opposite direction to the airplane's travel. They had used three quarters of the runway and were slowing, but not enough. Harris called, "Right rudder!" The aircraft was veering to the left. With Demerest and Harris shoving together, they maintained direction. But the runway's forward limit-with piled snow and a cavern of darkness beyond-was coming up fast. Anson Harris was applying toe brakes hard. Metal was straining, rubber screaming. Still the darkness neared. Then they were slowing . . . gradually slowing more … Flight Two came to rest three feet from the runway's end.17By the radar room clock, Keith Bakersfeld could see that another half hour of his shift remained. He didn't care. He pushed back his chair from the radar console, unplugged his headset, and stood up. He looked around him, knowing it was for the last time. "Hey!" Wayne Tevis said. "What gives?" "Here," Keith told him. "Take this. Somebody else may need it." He thrust the headset at Tevis, and went out. Keith knew he should have done it years ago. He felt a strange lightheadedness, almost a sense of relief. In the corridor outside he wondered why. It was not because he had guided in Flight Two; he bad no illusions about that. Keith had performed competently, but anyone else on duty could have done as well, or better. Nor-as he had known in advance-did anything done tonight wipe out, or counterbalance, what had gone before. It didn't matter, either, that he had overcome his mental block of ten minutes ago. Keith hadn't cared at the time; he simply wanted out. Nothing that had happened since had changed his mind. Perhaps, lie thought, there had been a purging in his own sudden anger of a few minutes ago, in the admission, never faced before even in private thoughts, of how much he hated aviation, and always had. Now, fifteen years late, he wished he had faced the fact long ago. He entered the controllers' locker room, with its wooden benches and cluttered notice board. Keith opened his locker and put on his outdoor clothes. There were a few personal things on the locker shelves; he ignored them. All he wanted was the color snapshot of Natalie; he peeled it carefully from the inside surface of the metal door . . . Natalie in a bikini; laughing; her impudent pixyish face, and freckles; her hair streaming … When lie looked at it, he wanted to cry. Behind the photograph was her note he bad treasured: I'm glad we had our ration With love and passion.Keith pocketed both. Someone else could clear the other things out. There was nothing he wanted to remind hira of this place-ever. He stopped, He stood there, realizing that without intending to, he had come to a new decision. He wasn't sure of everything the decision involved, or how it might seem tomorrow, or even if he could live with it beyond then. If he couldn't live with it, there was still an escape clause; a way out-the drugstore pillbox in his pocket. For tonight, the main thing was: he was not going to the O'Hagan Inn. He was going home. But there was one thing he knew: If there was to be a future, it must be removed from aviation. As others who had quit air traffic control before him had discovered, that could prove the hardest thing of all. And even if that much could be overcome-face it now, Keith told himself-there would be times when he would be reminded of the past. Reminded of Lincoln International; of Leesburg; of what had happened at both places. Whatever else you escaped, if you had a whole mind, there was no escaping memory. The memory of the Redfern family who had died … of little Valerie Redfern . . . would never leave him. Yet memory could adapt-couldn't 0-to time, to circumstance, to the reality of living here and now. The Redferns were dead. The Bible said: Let the dead bury their dead. What had happened, was done. Keith wondered if . . . from now on he could remember the Redferns with sadness, but do his best to make the living-Natahe, his own children-his first concern. He wasn't sure that it would work. He wa&t sure
that he had the moral or the physical strength. It had been a long time since he was sure of anything. But he could try. He took the tower elevator down. Outside, on his way to the FAA parking lot, Keith stopped. On sudden impulse, knowing he might regret it later, he took the pillbox from his pocket and emptied its contents into the snow. 18From his car, which he bad parked on the nearby taxiway after quitting runway three zero, Mel Bakersfeld could see that the pilots of Trans America Flight Two were wasting no time in taxiing to the terminal. The aircraft's lights, now halfway across the airfield, were still visible, moving fast. On his radio, switched to ground control, Mel could hear other flights being halted at taxiway and runway intersections to let the damaged airliner pass. The injured were stflI aboard. Flight Two had been instructed to bead directly for gate forty-seven where medical help, ambulances, and company staff were waiting. Mel watched the aircraft's lights diminish, and merge with the galaxy of terminal lights beyond. Airport emergency vehicles, which had not after all been required, were dispersing from the runway area. Tanya and the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson, were both on their way back to the terminal. They were driving with Joe Patroni, who had handed over the A6reo-Mexican 707 for someone else to taxi to the hangars. Tanya wanted to be at gate forty-seven for the disembarking of passengers from Flight Two. It was likely she would be needed. Before leaving, she had asked Mel quietly, "Are you still coming home?" "If it isn't too late," he said, "I'd like to." He watched while Tanya pushed a strand of red hair back from her face. She had looked at him with her direct, clear eyes and smiled. "It's not too late." They agreed to meet at the main terminal entrance in three quarters of an hour. Tomlinson's purpose was to interview Joe Patroni, and after that the crew of Trans America Flight Two. The crew-and Patroni, no doubt-would be heroes within a few hours. ne dramatic story of the flight's peril and survival, Mel suspected, would eclipse his own pronouncements on the more mundane subject of the airport's problems and deficiencies. Though not entirely, perhaps. Tomlinson, to whom Mel had entrusted his opinions, was a thoughtful, intelligent reporter who might decide to link present dramatics with the equally serious long-term view. The A6reo-Mexican 707, Mel saw, was now being moved away. The airplane appeared undamaged, but would undoubtedly be washed down and inspected thoroughly before resuming its interrupted flight to Acapulco . The assortment of service vehicles which had stayed with the aircraft during its ordeal by mud were following. There was no reason for Mel not to go himself. He would-in a moment or two; but for the second time tonight he found the airfield's loneliness, its closeness to the elemental part of aviation, a stimulus to thought. It was here, a few hours ago, Mel remembered, that he had had an instinct, a premonition, of events moving toward some disastrous end. Well, in a way they had. The disaster had happened, though through good fortune it had been neither complete, nor had the airport's facilities-or lack of them-been directly responsible. But the disaster could have involved the airport; and the airport in turn might have caused complete catastrophe-through inadequacies which Mel had foreseen and had argued, vainly, to correct. For Lincoln International was obsolescent.
Obsolescent, Mel knew, despite its good management, and gleaming glass and chrome; despite its air traffic density, its record-breaking passenger volume, its Niagara of air freight, its expectations of even more of everything, and its boastful title, "Aviation Crossroads of the World." The airport was obsolescent because-as had happened so often in the short six decades of modem aviation history-air progress had eclipsed prediction. Once more, expert prognosticators had been wrong, the visionary dreamers right. And what was true here was true elsewhere. Nationwide, worldwide, the story was the same. Much was talked about aviation's growth, its needs, coming developments in the air which would provide the lowest cost transportation of people and goods in human history, the chance these gave the nations of the world to know each other better, in peace, and to trade more freely. Yet little on the ground-in relation to the problem's size-had been done. Well, one voice alone would not change everything, but each voice which spoke with knowledge and conviction was a help. It had come to Mel within the past few hours-he was not sure why or how-that he intended to continue speaking out the way he had tonight, the way he hadn't for so long. Tomorrow-or rather, later today-he would begin by summoning, for Monday morning, an emergency special meeting of the Board of Airport Commissioners. When the Board met, he would urge an immediate commitment to build a new runway paralleling three zero. , The experience of tonight had strencqhened, as nothing else could, the arguments for increasing runway capacity which Mel had presented long ago. But this time, he determined, he would make a fight of it-with plain, blunt words, warning of catastrophe if public safety were given lip service only, while vital operational needs were iQnored or shelved. He would see to it that press and public opinion were marshaled on his sidethe kind of pressure which downtown politicians understood. After new runways, other projects, so far only talked about or hoped for, must be 'Pressed on; among thernan entirely new terminal and runway complex; more imaginative ground flow of people and freight; smaller, satellite fields for the vertical and short takeoff aircraft which were coming soon. Either Lincolh International was in the jet age, or it wasn't; if it was, it must keep pace far better than it had. It was not, Mel thought, as if airports were an indulgence or some civic luxury. Almost all were self-sustaining, generating wealth and high employment. Not all the battles for ground-air progress would be won; they never were. But some of them could be, and some of what was said and done here-because of Mel's stature in airport management-could spill over into national, even international, arenas. If it did, so much the better! The English poet John Donne, Mel remembered, had once written: No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. No airport was an island either; those which called themselves International should employ the kind of thinking to justify their name. Perhaps, working with others, Met could help to show them how. People who hadn't heard from Mel Bakersfeld for a while might quickly learn that he was still around. And intensive work, a resumption of more of his old industry-wide interests, might help with personal problems by keeping his mind occupied. Met hoped so, anyway. The thought was an abrupt reminder that sometime soon-perhaps tomorrow-he would have to call Cindy and arrange to move out his clothes and personal belongings. It would be an unhappy process which he hoped the girls, Roberta and Libby, would not be around to see. To begin with, Mel supposed, he would move into a hotel until he had time to arrange an apartment of his own. But more than ever be knew that Cindy's and his own decision for divorce bad been inevitable. Both of them had known it; tonight they merely resolved to remove a facade behind which nothing existed any more. Neither for themselves nor for the children could anything have been gained by more delay.
It would still take time, though, to adjust. And Tanya? Mel was not sure what, if anything, was ahead for them together. He thought there might be a good deal, but the time for a commitment-if there was to be one-was not yet. He only knew that tonight, before this long and complex workday ended, he craved companionship, warmth, and tenderness; and, of all the friends he possessed, Tanya had those qualities in greatest measure. What else, between himself and Tanya, these might lead to would be known in time. Mel put his car in gear and swung it toward the perimeter road which would take him to the terminal. Runway three zero was on his right as he drove. Now that the runway was open, he saw, other aircraft were beginning to use it, arriving in a steady stream despite the lateness. A Convair 880 of TWA swept by and landed. Behind it, half a mfle out, were the landing lights of another flight approaching. Behind the second, a third was turning in. The fact that Mel could see the third set of lights made him aware that the cloud base had lifted. He noticed suddenly that the snowfall had stopped; in a few places to the south, patches of sky were clearing. With relief, he realized the storm was moving on. ABOUT THE AUTHORARTHUR HAILEY was born in Luton , England , in 1920. He was a flight lieutenant in World War 11 and served in the Royal Air Force in the Middle and Far East . His two most recent books, Airport and Hotel, have been sensational bestsellers. His novels are published in all major languages. His plays have been performed throughout the world on television, and many of his stories have been made into successful motion pictures. Mr. Hailey lives in California with his wife and three children.