by ARTHUR HAILEY

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Doubleda), & Company, Inc. PRINTING HISTORY Doubleday edition published March 1968 2nd printing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …… March 1968 6th printing Juh, 1968 3rd printing . . . . . . . . . . . . . …… March 1968 7th printing ~ . Jul),1968 4th . . . printing……. April 1968 8th printing . . September 1968 5th. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . printing…….. June 1968 9th printing October 1968 10th printing October 1968 Excerpt appeared in the CHICAGO TRIBUNE March 1968 Literarv Guild edition published April 1968 Reader's Digest Condensed Book Club edition published April 1968 Dollar Book Club edition published Januari, 1969 Bantain edition published Jul " v 1969 2nd printing . . . …….. Julv 1969 6th printing …….. Ju1j, 1969 3rd printing . . . …….. July 1969 7th printing …….. July 1969 4th. . . . . . . . . printing…….. July 1969 Sth printing ….. October 1969 5th. . . . . . . . . printing…….. Juh, 1969 9th printing ….. Januai-), 1970 loth printing Ilth printing All rights reserved. Copyright (K) , 968 hv Arthur Hailev. Ltd.

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Buntion Bookv, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue , Neu, York , N.Y. 10019 , PRINFED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings from High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. (1922-1941) sometime Flight Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Air Force

PART ONE

6:30 P.M.-8:30 P.M. (CST)

At half-past six on a Friday evening in January, Lincoln International Airport , Illinois , was functioning, though with difficulty. The airport was reeling-as was the entire Midwestern United States-from the meanest, roughest winter storm in half a dozen years. The storm had lasted three days. Now, like pustules on a battered, weakened body, trouble spots were erupting steadily. A United Air Lines food truck, loaded with two hundred dinners, was lost and presumably snowbound somewhere on the airport perimeter. A search for the truck-in driving snow and darkness-had so far failed to locate either the missing vehicle or its driver. United's Flight I I I-a non-stop DC-8 for Los Angeles , which the food truck was to service-was already several hours behind schedule. The food snafu would make it later stiff. Similar delays, for varying reasons, were affecting at least a hundred flights of twenty other airlines using Lincoln International. Out on the airfield, runway three zero was out of use, blocked by an A6reo-Mexican jet-a Boeing 707-its wheels deeply mired in waterlogged ground beneath snow, near the runway's edge. Two hours of intensive effort had failed to get the big jet moved. Now, A6reoMexican, having exhausted its own local resources, had appealed to 'IVA for help. Air Traffic Control, hampered by the loss of runway 3 three zero, had instituted flow control procedures, limiting the volume of incoming traffic from adjoining air route centers at Minrieapolis, Cleveland , Kansas City, Indianapolis , and Denver . Despite this, twenty incoming flights were stacked up overhead, and orbiting, some nearing low fuel limits. On the ground, twice that number were readying for takeoff. But until the backlog of flights in the air could be reduced, ATC had ordered further delays of outbound traffic. Meanwhile, terminal gates, taxiways, and ground holding areas were increasingly crammed with waiting aircraft, many with engines running. Air freiQht warehouses-of all airlines-were stacked to their palletized limits with shipments, their usual high speed transit impeded by the storm. Freight supervisors were nervously watching perishables-hothouse flowers from Wyoming for New England; a ton of Pennsylvania cheese for Anchorage , Alaska ; frozen peas for Iceland ; live lobsters-trans-shipped from the east for a polar route flight-destination Europe . The lobsters were for tomorrow's menus in Edinburgh and Paris where they would be billed as "fresh local seafood," and American tourists would order them unknowingly. Storm or not, contracts decreed that air freight perishables must arrive at destination fresh, and swiftly. Causing special anxiety in American Airlines Freight was a shipment of several thousand turkey poults, hatched in incubators only hours earlier. The precise hatching-shipping schedule-like a complex order of battle-was set up weeks ago, before the turkey eggs were laid. It called for delivery of the live birds on the West Coast within forty-eight hours of birth, the limit of the tiny creatures' existence without their first food or water. Normally, the arrangement provided a near-hundred percent survival. Significant also-if the poults were fed en route, they would stink, and so would the airplane conveying them, for days afterward. Already the poults' schedule was out of joint by several hours. But an airplane had been diverted from passenger to freight service, and tonight the fledgling turkeys would have priority over everything else traveling, human VIPs included.

In the main passenger terminal, chaos predominated. Terminal waiting areas were jammed with thousands of passengers from delayed or canceled flights. Baggage, in piles, was everywhere. The vast main concourse had the combined appearance of a football scrimmage and Christmas Eve at Macy's. High on the terminal roof, the airport's immodest slogan, LINCOLN INTERNATIONAL-AVIATION CROSSROADS OF THE WORLD, was entirely obscured by drifting snow. The wonder was, Mel Bakersfeld reflected, that anything was continuing to operate at all. Mel, airport general manager-lean, rangy, and a powerhouse of disciplined energy-was standing by the Snow Control Desk, high in the control tower. He peered out into the darkness. Normally, from this glasswalled room, the entire airport complex-runways, taxi strips, terminals, traffic of the ground and air-was visible like neatly aligned building blocks and models, even at night their shapes and movements well defined by lights. Only one loftier view existed-that of Air Traffic Control which occupied the two floors above. But tonight only a faint blur of a few nearer lights penetrated the almost-opaque curtain of wind-driven snow. Mel suspected this would be a winter to be discussed at meteorologists' conventions for years to come. The present storm had been born five days ago in the lee of the Colorado mountains. At birth it was a tiny low pressure area, no bigger than a foothills homestead, and most forecasters on their air route weather charts had either failed to notice, or ignored it. As if in resentment, the low pressure system thereupon inflated like a giant malignancy and, still growing, swung first southeast, then north. It crossed Kansas and Oklahoma , then paused at Arkansas , gathering assorted nastiness. Next day, fat and monstrous, it rumbled up the Mississippi Valley . Finally, over Illinois the storm unloaded, almost paralyzing the state with blizzard winds, freezing temperatures, and a ten-inch snowfall in twenty-four hours. At the airport, the ten-inch snow had been preceded by a continuous, if somewhat lighter, fall. Now it was being followed by more snow, whipped by vicious winds which piled new drifts-at the same time that plows were clearing the old. Maintenance snow crews were nearing exhaustion. Within the past few hours several men had been ordered home, overfatigued despite their intermittent use of sleeping quarters provided at the airport for just this kind of emergency. At the Snow Control Desk near Mel, Danny Farrow –at other times an assistant airport manager, now snow shift supervisor-was calling Maintenance Snow Center by radiophone. "We're losing the parking lots. I need six more Payloaders and a banjo team at Y-seventy-four." Danny was seated at the Snow Desk, which was not really a desk at all, but a wide, three-position console. Confronting Danny and his two assistants-one on either side-was a battery of telephones, Tel Auto– graphs, and radios. Surrounding them were maps, charts, and bulletin boards recording the state and location of every piece of motorized snow-fighting equipment, as well as men and supervisors. There was a separate board for banjo teams-roving crews with individual snow shovels. The Snow Desk was activated only for its one seasonal purpose. At other times of year, this room remained empty and silent. Danny's bald pate showed sweat globules as he scratched notations on a large-scale airport grid map. He repeated his message to Maintenance, making it sound like a desperate personal plea, which perhaps it was. Up here was the snow clearance command post. Whoever ran it was supposed to view the airport as a whole, juggling demands, and deploying equipment wherever need seemed greatest. A problem thoughand undoubtedly a cause of Danny's sweating-was that those down below, fighting to keep their own operations going, seldom shared the same view of priorities. "Sure, sure. Six more Payloaders." An edgy voice from Maintenance, which was on the opposite side of the airfield, rattled the speakerphone. "We'll get 'em

from Santa Claus. He ought to be around in this lot." A pause, then more aggressively, "Any other damnfool stupid notions?" Glancing at Danny, Mel shook his head. He recognized the speakerphone voice as belonging to a senior foreman who had probably worked continuously since the present snowfall started. Tempers wore thin at times like this, with gopd reason. Usually, after an arduous, snow-fighting winter, airport maintenance and management had an evening stag session together which they called "kiss-and-make-up night." They would certainly need one this year. Danny said reasonably, "We sent four Payloaders after that United food truck. They should be through, or almost.»

«They might be-if we could find the frigging truck.»

«You haven't located it yet? What are you guys doing –having a supper and ladies' night." Danny reached out, turning down the speakerphone volume as a reply slammed back. "Listen, do you birds in the crummy penthouse have any idea what it's like out on the field? Maybe you should look out the windows once in a while. Anybody could be at the goddam North pole tonight and never know the difference.»

«Try blowing on your hands, Ernie," Danny said. "It may keep 'em warm, and it'll stop you sounding off." Mentally, Mel Bakersfeld filtered out most of the exchange, though he was aware that what had been said about conditions away from the terminal was true. An hour ago, Mel had driven across the airfield. He used service roads, but although he knew the airport layout intimately, tonight he had trouble finding his way and several times came close to being lost. Mel had gone to inspect the Maintenance Snow Center and then, as now, activity had been intensive. Where the tower Snow Control Desk was a command post, the Maintenance Snow Center was a front line headquarters. From here, weary crews and supervisors came and went, alternately sweating and freezing, the tanks of regular workers swelled by auxiliaries-carpenters, electricians, plumbers, clerks, police. The auxiliaries were pulled from their regular airport duties and paid time-and-a-half until the snow emergency was over. But they knew what was expected, having rehearsed snow maneuvers, like weekend soldiers, on runways and taxi strips during summer and fall. It sometimes amused outsiders to see snow removal groups, plow blades down, blowers roaring, on a hot, sunny day. But if any expressed surprise at the extent of preparation, Mel Bakersfeld would remind them that removing snow from the airport's operating area was equal to clearing seven hundred miles of highway. Like the Snow Desk in the control tower, the Maintenance Snow Center was activated for its winter function only. It was a big, cavernous room above an airport truck garage and, when in use, was presided over by a dispatcher. Judging from the present radio voice, Mel guessed that the regular dispatcher had been relieved for the time being, perhaps for some sleep in the "Blue Room," as Airport Standing Orders-with a trace of humor-called the snow crews' bunkhouse. The maintenance foreman's voice came on the radiophone again. "We're worried about that truck too, Danny. The poor bastard of a driver could freeze out there. Though if he has any gumption, he isn't starving." The UAL food truck had left the airline flight kitchen for the main terminal nearly two hours ago. Its route lay around the perimeter track, a journey which usually took fifteen minutes. But the truck had failed to arrive, and obviously the driver had lost his way and was snowbound somewhere in the airport boondocks. United flight dispatch had first sent out its own search party, without success. Now airport management had taken over. Mel said, "That United flight finally took off, didn't it? Without food." Danny Farrow answered without looking up. "I hear the captain put it to the passengers. Told them it'd take an hour to get another truck, that they had a movie and liquor aboard, and the sun was shining in California . Everybody voted to get the hell out. I would, too." Mel nodded, resisting a temptation to take over and direct the search himself for the missing truck and driver. Action would be a therapy. The cold of several days, and dampness with it, had made Mel's old war injury ache again-a reminder of Korea which never left him-and he could feel it now. He shifted, leaning, letting the good foot take his weight. The relief was momentary. Almost at once, in the new position, the ache resumed. He was glad, a moment later, that he had not interfered. Danny was already doing the right thing-intensifying the truck search, pulling plows and men from the terminal area and directing them to the perimeter road. For the time being, the parking lots would have to be abandoned, and later there would be plenty of beefs about that. But the missing driver must be saved first. Between calls, Danny warned Mel, "Brace yourself for more complaints. This seaxch'Il block the perimeter road. We'll hold up all the other food trucks till we find the guy. 11 Mel nodded. Complaints were a stock-in-trade of an airport manager's job. In this case, as Danny predicted, there would be a flood of protests when other airlines realized their food trucks were not getting through, whatever the reason. There were some who would find it hard to believe that a man could be in peril of death from exposure at a center of civilization like an airport, but it could happen just the same. The lonelier limits of the airport were no place to wander without bearings on a night like this. And if the driver decided to stay with his truck and keep the motor running for warmth, it could quickly be covered by drifts, with deadly carbon monoxide accu– mulating beneath. With one hand, Danny was using a red telephone; with the other, leafing through emergency orders-Mel's orders, carefully drawn up for occasions such as this. The red phone was to the airport's duty fire chief. Danny summarized the situation so far. "And when we locate the truck, let's get an ambulance out there, and you may need an inhalator or heat, could be both. But better not roll until we know where exactly. We don't want to dig you guys out, too." The sweat, in increasing quantity, was gleaming on Danny's balding head. Mel was aware that Danny disliked running the Snow Control Desk and was happier in his own department of air-port planning, sifting logistics and hypotheses of aviation's future. Such things were comfortably projected well ahead, with time to think, not disconcertingly here-and-now like the problems of tonight. Just as there were people who lived in the past, Met thought, for the Danny Farrows, the future was a refuge. But, unhappy or not, and despite the sweat, Danny was coping. Reaching over Danny's shoulder, Mel picked up a direct line phone to Air Traffic Control. The tower watch chief answered. "What's the story on that A6reo-Mexican 707? «

«Still there, Mr. Bakersfeld. They've been working a couple of hours trying to move it. No luck yet." That particular trouble had begun shortly after dark when an A6reo-Mexican captain, taxiing out for takeoff, mistakenly passed to the right instead of left of a blue taxi light. Unfortunately, the ground to the right, which was normally grass covered, had a drainage problem, due to be worked on when winter ended. Meanwhile, despite the heavy snow, there was still a morass of mud beneath the surface. Within seconds of its wrong-way turn, the hundred and twenty ton aircraft was deeply mired. When it became obvious that the aircraft could not get out, loaded, under its own power, the disgruntled passengers were disembarked and helped through mud and snow to hastily hired buses. Now, more than two hours later, the big jet was still stuck, its fuselage and tail blocking ninway three zero. Mel inquired, "The runway and taxi strip are still out of use?"

"Affirmative," the tower chief reported. "We're holding all outbound traffic at the gates, then sending them the long route to the other runways.»

«Pretty slow? «

«Slowing us fifty percent. Right now we're holding ten flights for taxi clearance, another dozen waiting to start engines." It was a demonstration, Mel reflected, of how urgently the airport needed additional runways and taxiways. For three years he had been urging construction of a new runway to parallel three zero, as well as other operational improvements. But the Board of Airport Commissioners, under political pressure from downtown, refused to approve. The pressure was because city councilmen, for reasons of their own, wanted to avoid a new bond issue which would be needed for financing. "The other thing," the tower watch chief said, "is that with three zero out of use, we're having to route takeoffs over Meadowood. The complaints have started co i g in already." Mel groaned. The community of Meadowood, which adjoined the southwest hinits of the airfield, was a constant thom to himself and an impediment to flight operations. Though the airport had been established long before the community, Meadowood's residents complained incessantly and bitterly about noise from aircraft overhead. Press publicity followed. It attracted even more complaints, with increasingly bitter denunciations of the airport and its management. Eventually, after long negotiations involving politics, more publicity and –in Mel Bakerfeld's opinion-gross misrepresentation, the airport and the Federal Aviation Administration had conceded that jet takeoffs and landings directly over Meadowood would be made only when essential in special circumstances. Since the airport was already lim.ited in its available runways, the loss in efficiency was considerable. Moreover, it was also agreed that aircraft taking off toward Meadowood would-almost at once after becoming airborne-follow noise abatement procedures. This, in turn, produced protests from pilots, who consid– ered the procedures dangerous. T'he airlines, however –conscious of the public furor and their corporate images-had ordered the pilots to conform. Yet even this failed to satisfy the Meadowood residents. Their militant leaders were still protesting, organizing, and-according to latest rumors-planning legal harassment of the airport. Mel asked the tower watch chief, "How many calls bave there been?" Even before the answer, he decided glumly that still more hours of his working days were going to be consumed by delegations, argument, and the same insoluble discussions as before. "I'd say fifty at least, we've answered; and there've been others we haven't. The phones start ringing right after every takeoff-our unlisted lines, too. I'd give a lot to know how they get the numbers. »

«I suppose you've told the people who've called that we've a special situation-the storm, a runway out of use.»

«We explain. But nobody's interested. They just want the airplanes to stop coming over. Some of 'em say that problems or not, pilots are still supposed to use noise abatement procedures, but tonight they aren't doing it.»

«Good God!-if I were a pilot neither would L" How could anyone of reasonable intelligence, Mel wondered, expect a pilot, in tonight's violent weather, to chop back his power immediately after takeoff, and then go into a steeply banked turn on instruments-which was what noise abatement procedures called for. "I wouldn't either," the tower chief said. "Though I guess it depends on your point of view. If I lived in Meadowood, maybe I'd feel the way they do.»

«You wouldn't live in Meadowood. You'd have listened to the warnings we gave people, years ago, not to build houses there.»

«I guess so. By the way, one of my people told me there's another community meeting over there tonight.»

«In this weather? «

«Seems they still plan to hold it, and the way we heard, they're cooking up something new."

"Whatever it is," Mel predicted, "we'll hear about it soon." Just the same, he reflected, if there was a public meeting at Meadowood, it was a pity to provide fresh ammunition so conveniently. Almost certainly the press and local politicians would be present, and the direct flights overhead, however necessary at this moment, would give them plenty to write and talk about. So the sooner the blocked runway-three zero-was back in use, the better it would be for all concerned. "In a little while," he told the tower chief, "I'll go out on the field myself and see what's happening. I'll let you know what the situation is.»

«Right.,~ Changing the subject, Mel inquired, "Is my brother on duty tonight? «

«Affirmative. Keith's on radar watch-west arrival." West arrival, Mel knew, was one of the tough, tense positions in the tower. It involved supervising all incoming flights in the west quadrant. Mel hesitated, then remembered he had known the tower watch chief a long time. "Is Keith all right? Is he showing any strain?" There was a slight pause before the answer. "Yes, he is. I'd say more than usual." Between the two men was the knowledge that Mel's younger brother had lately been a source of anxiety to them both. "Frankly," the tower chief said, "I wish I could let him take things easier. But I can't. We're short-staffed and everybody is under the gun." He added, "Including me.9~ "I know you are, and I appreciate your watching out for Keith the way you have.»

«Well, in this job most of us have combat fatigue at one time or another." Mel could sense the other choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes it shows up in the mind, sometimes in the gut. Either way, when it happens we try to help each other.»

«Thanks." The conversation had not eased Mel's anxiety. "I may drop in later.»

«Right, sir." Thetower chief hung up. The "sir" was strictly a courtesy. Mel bad no authority over ATC, which answered only to the Federal Aviation Administration with headquarters in Washington . But relationships between controllers and airport management were good, and Mel saw to it they stayed that way. An airport, any airport, was an odd complexity of overlapping authority. No single individual had supreme command, yet no one segment was entirely independent. As airport general manager, Mel's was closest to an over-all assignment, but there were areas where be knew better than to intrude. Air Traffic Control was one, airline internal management another. He could, and did, intervene in matters affecting the airport as a whole or the welfare of people using it. He could peremptorily order an airline to remove a door sign which was misleading or faded to conform to terminal standards. But what went on behind the doors was, within reason, the airline's exclusive business. This was why an airport manager needed to be a tactician as well as versatile administrator. Mel replaced the Snow Desk telephone. On another line, Danny Farrow was arguing with the parking lot supervisor, a harassed individual who for several hours had been fielding irate complaints from marooned car owners. People were asking: didn't whoever ran the airport know it was snowing? And if they did, why didn't someone get on the ball and move the stuff so a man could drive his car anywhere at any time, as was his democratic right? "Tell 'em we declared a dictatorship." The non-covered lots, Danny insisted, would have to wait until priorities eased. He would send men and equipment when he could. He was interrupted by a call from the tower watch chief. A new weather forecast predicted a wind shift in an hour. It would mean a change of runways, and could they hurry the plowing of runway one seven, left? He would do his best, Danny said. He'd check with the Conga Line supervisor and call the tower back. It was the kind of pressure, unremitting, which had gone on for three days and nights since the present

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

luv t The "t" was for Tanya-Tanya Livingston, passenger relations agent for Trans America , and a special friend of Mel's. Mel read the note again, as he usually did messages from Tanya, which became clearer the second time around. Tanya, whose job straddled troubleshooting and public relations, objected to capitals. ("Mel, doesn't it make sense? If we abolished capitals there'd be scads less trouble. Just look at the newspapers.") She had actually coerced a Trans America mechanic into chiseling all capitals from the typebars of her office typewriter. Someone higher up raised bob about that, Mel had heard, quoting the airline's rigid rule about willful damage to company property. Tanya had got away with it, though. She usually did. The Vern Demerest in the note was Captain Vernon Demerest, also of Trans America. As well as being one of the airline's more senior captains, Demerest was a militant campaigner for the Air Line Pilots Association, and, this season, a member of the Airlines Snow Committee at Lincoln International. The committee inspected runways and taxiways during snow periods and pronounced them fit, or otherwise, for aircraft use. It always included an active flying captain. Vernon Demerest also happened to be Mel's brother-in-law, married to Mel's older sister, Sarah. The Bakersfeld clan, through precedent and marriage, had roots and branches in aviation, just as older families were once allied with seafaring. However, there was little cordiality between Mel and his brother-in-law, whom Mel considered conceited and pompous. Others, he knew, held the same opinion. Recently, Mel and Captain Demerest had had an angry exchange at a meeting of the Board of Airport Commissioners, where Demerest appeared on behalf of the pilots' association. Mel suspected that the critical snow report-apparently initiated by his brother-in-law-was in retaliation. Mel was not greatly worried about the report. Whatever shortcomings the airport might have in other ways, he knew they were coping with the storm as well as any organization could. Just the same, the report was a nui– sance. Copies would go to all airlines, and tomorrow there would be inquiring phone calls and memos, and a need for explanations. Mel supposed he had better stay briefed, in readiness. He decided he would make an inspection of the present snow clearance situation at the same time that he was out on the airfield checking on the blocked runway and the mired Afteo-Mexican jet. At the Snow Desk, Danny Far-row was talking with Airport Maintenance again. When there was a moment's break, Mel interjected, "I'll. be in the terminal, then on the field." He had remembered what Tanya said in her note about having coffee together. He would stop at his own office first, then, on his way through the terminal, he would drop by Trans America to see her. The thought excited him.

2

Mel used the private elevator, which operated by passkey only, to descend from the tower to the administrative mezzanine. Though his own office suite was silent, with stenographers' desks cleared and typewriters covered, the lights had been left on. He entered his own interior office. From a closet, near the wide mahogany desk he used in daytime, he took out a heavy topcoat and fur-lined boots. Tonight Mel himself was without specific duties at the airport. This was as it should be. The reason he had stayed, through most of the three-day storm, was to be available for emergencies. Otherwise, he mused, as he pulled on the boots and laced them, by now he would have been home with Cindy and the children. Or would he? No matter how objective you tried to be, Mel reasoned, it was hard to be sure of your own real motives. Probably, if it had not been the storm, something else would have arisen to justify not going. Not going home, in fact, seemed lately to have become the pattern of his life. His job was a cause, of course. It provided plenty of reasons to remain extra hours at the airport, where lately there had been big problems facing him, quite apart from tonight's imbroglio. But-if he was honest with himself-the airport also offered an escape from the incessant wrangling between himself and Cindy which seemed to occur nowadays whenever they spent time together. "Oh, hell!" Mel's exclamation cut across the silence of the office. He plodded in the fur-lined boots toward his desk. A glance at a typed reminder from his secretary confirmed what he had just recalled. Tonight there was another of his wife's tedious charity affairs. A week ago, reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend. It was a cocktail party and dinner (so the typed note said), downtown at the swank Lake Michigan Inn. What the charity was, the note didn't specify, and, if it bad ever been mentioned, be had since forgotten. It made no difference, though. The causes with which Cindy Bakersfeld involved herself were depressingly similar. The test of worthiness-as Cindy saw it-was the social eminence of her fellow committee members. Fortunately, for the sake of peace with Cindy, the starting time was late-almost two hours from now and in view of tonight's weather, it might be even later. So he could still make it, even after inspecting the airfield. Mel could come back, shave and change in his office, and be downtown only a little late. He had better warn Cindy, though. Using a direct outside line, Mel dialed his home number. Roberta, his elder daughter, answered. "Hi," Mel said. "This is your old man." Roberta's voice came coolly down the line. "Yes, I know.»

«How was school today? «

«Could you be specific, Father? There were several classes. Which do you want to know about?" Mel sighed. There were days on which it seemed to him that his home life was disintegrating all at once. Roberta, he could tell, was in what Cindy called one of her snotty moods. Did all fathers, he wondered, abruptly lose communication with their daughters at age thirteen? Less than a year ago, the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel loved both his daughters deeply-Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby. There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage had survived. As to Roberta, he had known that as a teen-ager she would develop interests which he could neither share nor wholly understand. He had been prepared for this. What he had not expected was to be shut out entirely or treated with a mixture of indifference and condescension. Though, to be objective, he supposed the increasing strife between Cindy and himself bad not helped. Children were sensitive. "Never mind," Mel said. "Is your mother home?"

"She went out. She said if you phoned to tell you you have to be downtown to meet her, and for once try not to be late." Mel curbed his irritation. Roberta was undoubtedly repeating Cind ' v's words exactly. He could almost hear his wife saying them. "If your mother calls, tell her I might have to be a little late, and that I can't help it." There was a silence, and he asked, "Did you hear me? «

«Yes," Roberta said. "Is there anything else, Father? I have homework to do." He snapped back, "Yes, there is something else. You'll change your tone of voice, young lady, and show a little more respect. Furthermore, we'll end this conversation when I'm good and ready.»

«If you say so, Father.»

«And stop calling me Father! «

«Very well, Father." Met was tempted to laugh, then supposed he had better not. He asked, "Is everything all right at home? «

«Yes. But Libby wants to talk to you.»

«In a minute. I was just going to tell you-because of the storm I *may not be home tonight. There's a lot happening at the airport. I'll probably come back and sleep here." Again a pause, as if Roberta was weighing whether or not she could get away with a smart answer: So what else is new? Apparently she decided not. "Will you speak to Libby now? «

«Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie.»

«Goodnight." There was an impatient shuffle as the telephone changed hands, then Libby's small breathless voice. "Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!" Libby was always breathless as if, to a seven-yearold, life were excitingly on the run and she must forever keep pace or be left behind. "Let me think," Mel said. "I know-you had fun in the snow today.»

«Yes, I did, But it wasn't that.»

«Then I can't guess. You'll have to tell me.»

«Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all the good things we think will happen next month." He thought affectionately: he could understand Libby's enthusiasm. To her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which were not were brushed aside and speedily forgotten. He wondered how much longer her happy innocence would last. "That's nice," Mel said. "I like that.»

«Daddy, Daddy! Will you help me? «

«If I can.»

«I want a map of February." Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes seemed more expressive than conventional words. It occurred to him that he could use a map of February himself. "There's a calendar in my desk in the den." Mel told her where to find it and heard her small feet running from the room, the telephone forgotten. It was Roberta, Mel assumed, who silently hung up. From the general manager's office suite, Mel walked onto the executive mezzanine which ran 'the length of the main terminal building. He carried the heavy topcoat with him. Pausing, he surveyed the thronged concourse below, which seemed to have become even busier within the past half-hour. In waiting areas, every available seat was occupied. Newsstands and information booths were ringed by crowds, among them many military uniforms. In front of all airline passenger counters were line-ups, some extending around corners out of sight. Behind the counters, ticket agents and supervisors, their normal numbers swelled by colleagues from earlier shifts retained on overtime, had schedules and passage coupons spread out like orchestral scores. Delays and reroutings which the storm had caused were taxing both scheduling and human patience. Immediately below Met, at Braniff ticketing, a youngish man with long, blond hair and a yellow scarf was proclaiming loudly, "You've the effrontery to tell me I must

go to Kansas City to get to New Orleans . You people are rewriting geography! You're mad with power!" The ticket agent facing him, an attractive brunette in her twenties, brushed a band over her eyes before answering with professional patience, "We can route you directly, sir, but we don't know when. Because of the weather, the longer way will be faster and the fare is the same. " Behind the yellow-scarfed man, more passengers with other problems pressed forward urgently. At the United counter, a small pantomime was being played. A would-be passenger-a well-dressed businessman-leaned for-ward, speaking quietly. By the man's expression and actions, Mel Bakersfeld could guess what was being said. "I would very much like to get on that next flight.»

«I'm sorry, sir, the flight is fully booked. There's also a long standby . . ." Before the ticket agent could complete his sentence, he glanced up. The passenger had laid his briefcase on the counter in front of him. Gently, but pointedly, he was tapping a plastic baggage tag against a corner of the case. It was a 100,000-Mile Club tag, one of those United issued to its favored friendsan inner elite which all airlines had helped create. The agent's expression changed. His voice became equally low. "I think we'll manage something, sir." The agent's pencil hovered, crossed out the name of another passenger-an earlier arrival whom he had been about to put on the flight-and inserted the newcomer's name instead. The action was unobserved by those in line behind. The same kind of thing, Mel knew, went on at all airline counters everywhere. Only the naYve or uninformed believed wait lists and reservations were operated with unwavering impartiality. Met observed that a group of new arrivals-presumably from downtown-was entering the terminal. They were beating off snow from their clothing as they came in, and judging from their appearance, it seemed that the weather outside must be worsening. The newcomers were quickly absorbed in the general crowds. Few among the eighty thousand or so air travelers who thronged the terminal daily ever glanced up at the executive mezzanine, and fewer still were aware of Mel tonight, high above them, looking down. Most people who thought about airports did so in terms of airlines and airplanes. It was doubtful if many were even aware that executive offices existed or that an administrative machine-unseen, but complex and employing hundreds-was constantly at work, keeping the airport functioning. Perhaps it was as well, Mel thought, as he rode the elevator down again. If people became better informed, in time they would also learn the airport's weaknesses and dangers, and afterward fly in and out with less assurance than before. On the main concourse, he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. "Evening, Mr. Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?" No matter how busy the airport became, Mel thought, there would always be time for gossip. He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya's had been linked already. "Yes," be said. "I was." The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY. "You'll find her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld. We just had a bit of a crisis here. She's taking care of it." 3

In a small private lounge which was sometimes used for VIPs, the young girl in the uniform of a Trans America ticket agent was sobbing hysterically. Tanya Livingston steered her to a chair. "Make your-

self comfortable," Tanya said practically, "and take your time. You'll feel better afterward, and when you're ready we can talk." Tanya sat down herself, smoothing her trim, tight uniform skirt. There was no one else in the room, and the only sound-apart from the crying-was the faint hum of air-conditioning. There was fifteen years or so difference in age between the two women. The girl was not much more than twenty, Tanya in her late thirties. Watching, Tanya felt the gap to be greater than it was. It came, she supposed, from having been exposed to marriage, even though briefly and a long time ago-or so it seemed. She thouorht: it was the second time she had been conscious of her age today. The first was while combing her hair this morning; she had seen telltale strands of gray among the short-cropped, flamboyant red. There was more of the gray than last time she had checked a month or so ago, and both occasions were reminders that her forties-by which time a woman ought to know where she was going and why-were closer than she liked to think about. She had another thought: in fifteen years from now, her own daughter would be the same age as the girl who was crying. The girl, whose name was Patsy Smith, wiped reddened eyes with a large linen handkerchief which Tanya had given her. She spoke with difficulty, choking back more tears. "They wouldn't talk that way … so mean, rudely … at home . . . not to their wives.»

«You mean passengers wouldn't?" The girl nodded. "Some would," Tanya said. "When you're married, Patsy, you may find out, though I hope not. But if you're telling me that men behave like adolescent boors when their travel plans get crossed up, I'll agree with you. 11 "I was doing my best We all were . . . All day today; and yesterday … the day before … But the way people talk to you . . .»

«You mean they act as if you started the storm yourself. Especially to inconvenience them.»

«Yes … And then that last man … Until him, I was all right . . .»

«What happened exactly? They called me when it was all over." The girt was beginning to regain control of herself. "Well … he had a ticket on Flight 72, and that was canceled because of weather. We got him a seat on 114, and he missed it. He said he was in the dining room and didn't hear the flight called.»

«Flight announcements aren't made in the di i g room," Tanya said. "There's a big notice saying so, and its on all the menus.»

«I explained that, Mrs. Livingston, when he came back from the departure gate. But he was still nasty. He was going on as if it were my fault he'd missed the flight, not his. He said we were all inefficient and half asleep.»

«Did you call your supervisor? «

«I tried to, but he was busy. We all were.»

«So what did you do? «

«I got the passenger a seat-on the extra section, 2122.»

«And? «

«He wanted to know what movie was showing on the flight. I found that out, and he said he'd seen it. He got nasty again. The movie he'd wanted to see was on the first flight which was canceled. He said, could I get him another flivht which was showing the same movie as the first one? All the time, there were other passengers; they were pressing up a(Zainst the counter. Some were making remarks out loud about how slow I was. Well, when he said that about the movie, that was when I The girl hesitated. "I guess something snapped." Tanya prompted, "That was when you threw the timetable?" Patsy Smith nodded miserably. She looked as if she were going to cry again. "Yes. I don't know what got into me, Mrs. Livingston . . . I threw it right over the counter. I told him he could fix his own flight.»

«All I can say," Tanya said, "is that I hope you hit him."

The girl looked up. In place of tears, there was the beginning of a smile. "Oh, yes; I did." She thought, then giggled. "You should have seen his face. He was so surprised." Her expression became serious. "Then, after that . . .»

«I know what happened after that. You broke down, which was a perfectly natural thing to do. You were sent in here to finish your cry, and now you have, you're going home in a taxi." The girl looked bemused. "You mean … that's all? «

«Certainly it's all. Did you expect us to fire you? «

«I . . . I wasn't sure.»

«We might have to," Tanya said, "much as we'd disRe it, Patsy, if you did the same thing again. But you won't, will you? Not ever." ne girl shook her head firmly. "No, I won't. I can't explain, but having done it just once is enough.»

«That's the end of it,, then. Except that you might like to hear what happened after you left.»

«Yes, please.»

«A man came forward. He was one of those in the line-up, and he said he heard, and saw, the whole thing. He also said he had a daughter the same age as you, and ff the first man had talked to his daughter the same way he talked to you, he would personally have punched him in the nose. Then the second man-the one from the line-up-left his name and address, and said if the man you had been talking to ever made any kind of complaint, to let him know and he would report what really happened." Tanya smiled. "So, you see-there are nice people, too.»

«I know," the girl said. "T'here aren't many, but when you do get one like that, who's nice to you, and cheerful, you feel you want to hug him.»

«Unfortunately we can't do that, any more than we should throw timetables. Our job is to treat everyone alike, and be courteous, even when passengers are not.»

«Yes, Mrs. Livingston ." Patsy Smith would be all right, Tanya decided. Apparently, she hadn't thought of quitting, as some airls did who suffered simflar experiences. In fact, now that she was over her emotion, Patsy seemed to have the kind of resilience which would be helpful to her in future. God knows, Tanya thought, you needed resilienceand some toughness-in dealing with the traveling public, whatever job you held. Take Reservations. Downtown in reservation departments, she was aware, personal pressures would be even greater than at the airport. Since the storm began, reservation clerks would have made thousands of calls advising passengers of delays and rearrangements. It was a job the clerks all hated because people whom they catled were invariably bad-tempered and frequently abusive. Airline delays seemed to arouse a latent savagery in those affected by them. Men talked insultingly to women telepbonists, and even people who at other times were courteous and mild-mannered, turned snarly and disagreeable. New York-bound flights were worst of all. Reservation clerks had been known to refuse the assignment of telephoning news of delay or cancellation to a flight load of passengers destined for New York , preferring to risk their jobs rather than face the torrent of invective they knew awaited them. Tanya had often speculated on what it was about New York which infected those headed there with a kind of medicine-dance fervor to arrive. But, for whatever reasons, she knew there would be resignations among airline staffs-in Reservations and elsewhere-when the present emergency was over. There always were. A few nervous breakdowns could be counted on, too, usually among the younger girls, more sensitive to passengers' rudeness and ill humor. Constarit politeness, even when you were trained for it, was a strain which took a heavy toll. She was glad, though, that Patsy Smith would not be among the casualties. There was a knock at the outer door. It opened, and Mel Bakersfeld leaned in. He was wearing fleece-lined boots and carrying a heavy topcoat. "I was coming by," he told Tanya. "I can drop back later, if you like."

"Please stay." She smiled a welcome. "We've almost finished." She watched him as he walked to a chair across the room. He looked tired, Tanya thought. She switched her attention back, filled in a voucher, and handed it to the girl. "Give this to the taxi dispatcher, Patsy, and he'll send you home. Have a good night's rest, and we'll expect you back tomorrow, bright and breezy." When the girl bad gone, Tanya swung her chair around to face Mel's. She said brightly, "Hullo." He put down a newspaper he had been glancing at, and grinned. "Hi! «

«You got my note? «

«I came to thank you for it. Though I might have made it here without." Gesturing to the door through which the girl had gone, he asked, "What was all that about? Battle fatigue? «

«Yes." She told him what had happened. Mel laughed. "I'm tired, too. How about sending me off in a taxi?" Tanya looked at him, inquiringly. Her eyes-a bright, clear blue-had a quality of directness. Her head was tilted, and an overhead light reflected red highlights from her bair. A slim figure, yet with a fullness which the trim airline uniform heightened . . . Mel was conscious, as at other times, of her desirability and warmth. "I might consider it," she said. "If the taxi goes to my place, and you let me cook you dinner. Say, a Lamb Casserole."' He hesitated, weighing conflicting claims, then reluctantly shook his head. "I wish I could. But we've some trouble here, and afterward I have to be downtown." He got up. "Let's have coffee, anyway.»

«All right." Mel held the door open, and they went out into the bustling, noisy main concourse. There was a press of people around the Trans America counter, even greater than when Mel had arrived. "I mustn't take long," Tanya said. "I've stiR two hours more on duty." As they threaded their way through the crowds and increasing piles of luggage, she moderated her normally brisk pace to Mel's slower one. He was limping rather more than usual, she noticed. She found herself wanting to take his arm and help him, but supposed she had better not. She was still in Trans America uniform. Gossip spread fast enough without helping it actively. The two of them had been seen a good deal lately in each other's company, and Tanya was sure that the airport rumor machine-which operated like a jungle telegraph with IBM speed-had already taken note. Probably it was assumed that she and Mel were bedding down together, though, as it happened, that much was untrue. They were headed for the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop in the central lobby. "About that Lamb Casserole," Mel said. "Could we make it another night? Say, the day after tomorrow?" The sudden invitation from Tanya had surprised him. Although they had had several dates together-for drinks or dinner-until now she had not suggested visiting her apartment. Of course, going there could be for dinner only. Still there was always the possibility that it might not. Lately, Mel had sensed that if their meetings away from the airport continued, there could be a natural and obvious progression. But he had moved cautiously, instinct warning him that an affair with Tanya would be no casual romance but a deeply emotional involvement for them both. A consideration, also, was his own problems with Cindy. Those were going to take a lot of working out, if they could be worked out at all, and there was a limit to the number of complications a man could handle at one time. It was a strange commentary, be thought, that when a marriage was secure it seemed easier to manage an affair than when the same marriage was shaky. Just the same, Tanya's invitation seemed too enticing to pass up. "The day after tomorrow is Sunday," she pointed out. "But I'll be off duty, and if you can manage it, I'll have more time."

Mel grinned. "Candies and wine?" He had forgotten it would be Sunday. But he would have to come to the airport anyway because, even if the storm moved on, there would be aftereffects. As to Cindy, there had been several Sundays when she had been out, herself, without an announced reason. Momentarily, Met and Tanya separated as she dodged a hurrying, florid-faced man, followed by a redcap with a loaded luggage cart, topped by golf clubs and tennis rackets. Wherever that load was going, Tanya thought enviously, it was a long way south. "Okay," she said when they rejoined. "Candles and wine." As they entered the coffee shop, a pert hostess recognized Mel and ushered him, ahead of others, to a small table at the rear, marked RESERVED, which airport officials often used. About to sit down, be stumbled slightly and grasped Tanya's arm. The observant hostess flicked her eyes over them both with a half-smfle. Rumor machine, stand by for a bulletin, Tanya thought. Aloud, she said, "Did you ever see such crowds? This has been the wildest three days I remember." Mel glanced around the packed coffee shop, its bedlam of voices punctuated by the clatter of dishes. He nodded toward the outer door through which they could both see a moving, surging swarm of people. "If you think this is a big horde tonight, wait until the civil version of the C-5A goes into service.»

«I know-we can barely cope with the 747s; but a thousand passengers arriving all at once at a check-in counter … God help us!" Tanya shuddered. "Can you imagine what it'll be like when they collect their bag– gage? I don't even want to think about it.»

«Nor do a good many other people-who ought to be thinking about it, right now." He was amused to find that their conversation bad already drifted into aviation. Airplanes and airlines held a fascination for Tanya, and she liked talking about them. So did Mel, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed her company. "Which people aren't thinking? «

«Those who control policy on the ground-airport and air traffic. Most are acting as if today's jets will fly forever. They seem to believe that if everybody keeps quiet and std], the new, big airplanes will go away and not bother us. That way we needn't have ground facilities to match them." Tanya said thoughtfully, "But there's a lot of building at airports. Wherever you go, you see it." Mel offered her a cigarette and she shook her head negatively. He lit one for himself before answering. "Mostly the building going on is patchwork-changes and additions to airports built in the 1950s or early '60s. There's little that's farseeing. There are exceptions – Los Angeles is one; Tampa , Florida , and Dallas-Fort Worth are others; they'll be the first few airports in the world ready for the new mammoth jets and supersonics. Kansas City , Houston , and Toronto look good; San Francisco has a plan, though it may get sunk politicatly. In North America there's not much else that's impressive.»

«How about Europe ? «

«Europe is routine," Mel said, "except for Paris –the new Nord airport to replace Le Bourget will be among the finest yet. London is the kind of inefficient mess which only the English can create." He paused, consid– ering. "We shouldn't knock other countries, though; back home is bad enough. New York is frightening, even with changes being made at Kennedy; there simply isn't enough airspace above New York –I'm thinking of traveling there by train in future. Washington , D.C. , is floundering-Washington National's a Black Hole of Calcutta ; Dulles was a giant step sideways. And Chicago will wake up one day to find it let itself get twenty years behind." fie stopped, considering. "You remember a few years ago, when the jets first started flying-what conditions were like at airports which had been designed for DC-4s and Constellations.»

«I remember," Tanya said. "I worked at one. On normal days you couldn't move for the crowds; on busy days you couldn't breathe. We used to say it was like hoidin(y thc World Series in a sand lot." ,,what's coming in the 1970s," Mel predicted, "is

going to be worse, far worse. And not just people congestion. We'll be choking on other things, too.»

«Such as what? «

«Airways and traffic control for one, but that's another whole story. The really big thing, which most airport planning hasn't caught on to yet, is that we're moving toward the day-fast-wben air freight business wfll be bigger than passenger traffic. The same thing's been true with every form of transportation, starting with the birchbark canoe. To begin with, people are carried, plus a little freight; but before long, there's more freight than people. In airline business we're already closer to that than is generally known. When freight does get to be top dog-as will happen in the next ten years or so-a lot of our present airport ideas will be obsolete. If you want a sign of the way things are moving, watch some of the young men who are going into airline management now. Not long ago, hardly anybody wanted to work in air freight departments; it was backroorn stuff; passenger business had the glamour. Not any more! Now the bright boys are heading for air freight. They know that's where the future and the big promotions lie." Tanya laughed. "I'll be old-fashioned and stick with people. Somehow freight . . ." A waitress came to their table. "The special's off, and if we get many more people in here tonight, there won't be much else either." They ordered coffee, Tanya cinnamon toast, and Mel a fried egg sandwich. When the waitress had gone, Mel grinned. "I guess I started to make a speech. I'm sorry.»

«Maybe you need the practice." She regarded him curiously. "You haven't made many lately.»

«I'm not president of the Airport Operators Council any more. I don't get to Washington as much, or other places either." But it was not the whole reason for not making speeches and being less in the public eye. He suspected Tanya knew it. Curiously, it was a speech of Mel's which had brought them together to begin with. At one of the rare interline meetings which airlines held, he had talked about coming developments in aviation, and the lag in ground organization compared with progress in the air. He had used the occasion as a dry run for a speech he intended to deliver at a national forum a week or so later. Tanya had been among the Trans America contingent, and next day had sent him one of her lower case notes: mr. b spch great. all'v us earthside slaves cheering u 4 admitting airport policymakers asleep at drawing boards. somebody needed 2 say it. mind suggestion? wd all be more alive if fewer fax, more abt people…. passenger, once inside belly (airplane or whale, remember jonah?) thinks only of self, not system much. i'll bet orville/wilbur felt same way once off ground. wright? ti As well as amusing him, the note bad caused him to think. It was true, he realized-he had concentrated on facts and systems to the exclusion of people as individuals. He revised his speech notes, shifting the emphasis as Tanya suggested. The result was the most successful presentation he had ever made. It gained him an ovation and was widely reported internationally. Afterward he bad telephoned Tanya tin thank her. That was when they had started seeing each other. The thought of Tanya's first message was a reminder of the note she had sent this evening. "I appreciate that tip about the snow committee report, though I'm curious how you managed to see it before I have.»

«No mystery. It was typed in the Trans America office. I saw our Captain Demerest checking it, and chortling.»

« Vernon showed it to you?"

"No, but he had it spread out, and I'm adept to reading upside down. Which reminds me, you didn't answer my question: Why does your brother-in-law dislike you?'; Mel grimaced. "I guess he knows I'm not overly keen on him.»

«If you wanted to," Tanya said, "you could tell him now. There's the great man himself." She nodded toward the cashier's desk, and Mel turned his head. Captain Vernon Dernerest of Trans America was counting out change as he paid a bill. A tall, broadshouldered, striking figure, he towered above others around him. He was dressed informally in a Harris tweed jacket and impeccably creased slacks, yet managed to convey an impression of authority-like a Regular Army General, Mel thought, temporarily in civilian clothes. Demerest's strong, aristocratic features were unsmiling as he addressed a four-striper Trans America captain-in uniform-who was with him. It appeared that Demerest was giving instructions; the other nodded. Captain Dernerest glanced briefly around the coffee shop and, observing Mel and Tanya, gave a curt, cool nod. Then, checking his watch, and with a final word to the other captain, he strode out. "He appeared in a hurry," Tanya said. "Though wherever fie's going, it won't be for long. Captain D. is taking Flight Two to Rome tonight." Mel smiled. "The Golden Argosy? «

«No less. I see, sir, you read our advertising.»

«It's hard not to." Mel was aware, as were millions of others who admired the four-color double-page spreads in Life, Look, the Post, and other national magazines, that Trans America Fight Two-The Golden Argosy –was the airline's crack, prestige flight. He also knew that only the line's most senior captains ever commanded it. "It seems to be agreed," Mel said, "that Vernon is one of the finest pilots extant.»

«Oh yes, indeed. Extant and arrogant." Tanya hesitated, then confided, "If you're in a mood for gossip, you aren't alone in not caring for your brother-in-law. I heard one of our mechanics say not long ago, he was ;orry there weren't propellers any more because he'd always hoped Captain Dernerest would walk into one." Mel said sharply, "That's a pretty savage thought.»

«I agree. Personally, I prefer what Mr. Youngquist, our president, is supposed to have said. I understand his instructions about Captain Demerest are: 'Keep that bumptious bastard out of my hair, but book me on his flights.' " Mel chuckled. Knowing both men, he felt sure the sally was true. He should not have let himself be drawn into a discussion about Vernon Demerest, he realized, but news of the adverse snow report and the nuisance effect it would have, still rankled. He wondered idly where his brother-in-law was going at the moment, and ff it involved one of his amorous adventures, of which –reportedly-there were a good many. Looking toward the central lobby, Mel saw that Captain Demerest had already been swallowed up in the crowds outside. Across the table, Tanya smoothed her skirt with a swift stroking gesture which Mel had noticed before and liked. It was a feminine habit and a reminder that few women looked as good in uniform, which often seemed to have a de-sexing effect, but with Tanya worked the opposite way. Some airlines, Mel knew, let their senior passenger agents out of uniform, but Trans America liked the authority which its jaunty blue and gold commanded. Two gold rings edged with white, on Tanya's cuffs, pro– claimed her Job and seniority. As if surmising his thoughts, she volunteered, "I may be out of uniform soon.»

«Why? 11 "Our District Transportation Manager is being transferred to New York . The Assistant D.T.M. is moving up, and I've applied for his job." He regarded her with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. "I believe you'll get it. And that won't be the end, either." Her eyebrows went up. "You think I might make vice-president?"

"I believe you could. That is, if it's the kind of thing you want. 1-o be the lady executive; all that." Tanya said softly, "I'm not sure if it's what I want, or not." The waitress brought their order. When they were alone again, Tanya said, "Sometimes us working girls don't get a lot of choice. If you're not satisfied to stay in the job you have through pension time-and lots of us aren't-the only way out is up.»

«You're excluding marriage?" She selected a piece of cinnamon toast. "I'm not excluding it. But it didn't work for me once, and it may not again. Besides which, there aren't many takers-eligible ones-for used bride with baby.»

«You might find an exception.»

«I might win the Irish Sweep. Speaking from experience, Met dear, I can tell you that men like their women unencumbered. Ask my ex-husband. If you can find him, that is; I never could.»

«He left you after your baby was born? «

«Goodness, no! That way Roy would have had six months of responsibility. I think it was on a Thursday I told him I was pregnant; I couldn't have kept it to myself much longer. On Friday when I came home from work, Roy 's clothes were gone. So was Roy.»

«You haven't seen him since?" She shook her head. "In the end, it made the divorce much simpler-desertion; no complications like another woman. I have to be fair, though. Roy wasn't all bad. He didn't empty our joint checking account, though he could have. I must admit I've sometimes wondered if it was kindness, or if he just forgot. Anyway, I had all that eighty dollars to myself." Mel said, "You've never mentioned that before.»

«Should I have? «

«For sympathy, maybe." She shook her head. "If you understood me better, you'd know the reason I'm telling you now is because I don't need sympathy. Everything has worked out fine." Tanya smiled. "I may even get to be an airline vice– president. You just said so." At an adjoining table, a woman said loudly, "Geez! Lookit the time!" Instinctively, Mel did. It was three quarters of an hour since he had left Danny Farrow at the Snow Control Desk. Getting up from the table, he told Tanya, "Don't go away. I have to make a call." There was a telephone at the cashier's counter, and Met dialed one of the Snow Desk unlisted numbers. Danny Farrow's voice said, "Hold it," then, a few moments later, returned on the line. "I was going to call you," Danny said. "I just had a report on that stuck 707 of A6reo-Mexican.»

«Go ahead.»

«You knew Mexican had asked TWA for help? «

«Yes. 11 "Well, they've got trucks, cranes, God knows what out there now. The runway and taxiway are blocked off completely, but they stiff haven't shifted the damn airplane. The latest word is that TWA has sent for Joe Patroni." Met acknowledged, "I'm glad to hear it, though I wish they'd done it sooner." Joe Patroni was airport maintenance chief for TWA, and a born trouble-shooter. He was also a down-toearth, dynamic character and a close crony of Mel's. "Apparently they tried to get Patroni right away," Danny said– "But he was at home and the people here had trouble reaching him. Seems there's a lot of phone lines down from the storm.»

«But he knows now. You're sure of that? «

«TWA's sure. They say he's on his way." Mel calculated. He knew that Joe Patroni lived at Glen Ellyn , some twenty-five miles from the airport, and even with ideal driving conditions the journey took forty minutes. Tonight, with snowbound roads and crawling traffic, the airline maintenance chief would be lucky to make it in twice that time. "If anyone can get that airplane moved tonight," Mel conceded, "it'll be Joe. But meanwhile I don't want anybody sitting on his hands until he gets here. Make it clear to everyone that we need runway three zero usable,

and urgently." As well as the operational need, he remembered unhappily that flights must still be taking off over Meadowood. He wondered if the community meeting, which the tower chief had told him about, was yet in session. "I've been telling 'em," Danny confirmed. "I'll do it some more. Oh, a bit of good news-we found that United food truck.»

«The driver okay? «

«He was unconscious under the snow. Motor still running, and there was carbon monoxide, the way we figured. But they got an inhalator on him, and he'll be all right.»

«Good! I'm going out on the field now to do some checking for myself. I'll radio you from there.»

«Wrap up well," Danny said. "I hear it's a lousy night." Tanya was still at the table when Mel returned, though preparing to go. "Hold on," he said, "I'm coming, too." She motioned to his untouched sandwich. "How about dinner? If that's what it was.»

«This will do for now." He bolted a mouthful, washed it down hastily with coffee, and picked up his topcoat. "Anyway, I'm having dinner downtown." As Mel paid their check, two Trans America ticket agents entered the coffee shop. One was the supervising agent whom Mel had spoken to earlier. Observing Tanya, he came across. "Excuse me, Mr. Bakersfeld … Mrs. Livingston, the D.T.M.'s looking for you. He has another problem." Mel pocketed his change from the cashier. "Let me guess. Somebody else threw a timetable.»

«No, sir." The agent grinned. "I reckon if there's another thrown thiff evening it'll be by me. This one's a stowaway-on Flight 80 from Los Angeles.»

«Is that all?" Tanya appeared surprised. Aerial stowaways-though all airlines had them-were seldom a cause of great concern. "The way I hear it," the agent said, "this one's a dilly. There's been a radio message from the captain, and a security guard has gone to the gate to meet the flight. Anyway, Mrs. Livingston , whatever the trouble is, they're calling for you." With a friendly nod, he went off to rejoin his companion. Mel walked with Tanya from the coffee shop into the central lobby. They stopped at the elevator which would take Mel to the basement garage where his car was parked. "Drive carefully out there," she cautioned. "Don't get in the way of any airplanes.»

«If I do, I'm sure you'll hear about it." He shrugged into the heavy topcoat. "Your stowaway sounds interesting. I'll try to drop by before I leave, to find out what it's all about." He hesitated, then added, "It'll give me a reason to see you again tonight." They were close together. As one, each reached out and their hands touched. Tanya said softly, "Who needs a reason?" In the elevator, going down, he could still feel the warm smoothness of her flesh, and hear her voice. 4

Joe Patroni-as Mel Bakersfeld had learned-was on his way to the airport from his home at Glen Ellyn . The cocky, stocky Italian-American, who was airport maintenance chief for TWA, had left his suburban, ranch-style bungalow by automobile some twenty minutes earlier. The going was exceedingly slow, as Mel had guessed it would be. At the moment, Joe Patroni's Buick Wildcat was halted in a traffic tie-up. Behind and ahead, as far as visibility extended, were other vehicles, also stopped. While waiting, his actions illuminated by the taillights of the car in front, Patroni lit a fresh cigar.

Legends had grown up around Joe Patroni; some professional, others personal. He had begun his working life as a grease monkey in a garage. Soon after, he won the garage from his employer in a dice game, so that at the end of the game they reversed roles. As a result, yotin– Joe became heir to various bad debts, including one which made him owner of an ancient, decrepit Waco biplanc. With a mixture of resourcefulness and sheer mechanical ability, he repaired the airplane, then flew it successfully– without benefit of flying lessons, which he could not afford. The airplane and its mechanical functioning absorbed Joe Patroni completely-so much so, that he enticed his former employer into another dice game and allowed him to win the garage back. Joe thereupon quit the garage and took a job as an airline mechanic. He studied at night school, became a lead mechanic, then a foreman with a reputation as a top-notch troubleshooter. His crew could change an engine faster than an airplane manufacturer said it could be done; and with absolute reliability. After a while, whenever there was pressure, or a difficult repair job, the word went out: get Joe Patroni. A contributing reason for his success was that he never wasted time on diplomacy. Instead, he went directly to the point, both with people and airplanes. He also had a total disregard for rank, and was equally forthright with everyone, including the airline's senior executives, On one occasion, still talked about when airline men reminisced, Joe Patroni walked off his job and, without word to anyone, or prior consultation, rode an airplane to New York . He carried a package with him. On arrival, he went by bus and subway to the airline's Olympian headquarters in midtown Manhattan where, without announcement or preamble, he strode into the president's office. Opening the package, he deposited an ofly, disassembled carburetor on the immaculate presidential desk. The president, who had never heard of Joe Patroni, and whom no one ever got to see without prior appointment, was apoplectic until Joe told him, "If you want to lose some airplanes in fli ght, throw me out of here. If you don't, sit down and listen." The president sat down-while Joe Patroni lighted a cigar-and listened. Afterward, he called in his engineering vice-president who, later still, ordered a mechanical modification affecting carburetor icing in flight, which Patroni had been urging-unsuccessfully at lower level-for months. Later, Patroni received official commendation, and the incident became one more to add to an already growing fund of Patroni stories. Soon after, Joe was promoted to senior supervisor, and a few years later was given the important post of maintenance chief at Lincoln International. On a personal level, another report said that Joe Patroni made love to his wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink. This was true. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone mes– sa,~e came from the airport about the mired A6reo-Mexican jet which TWA had been asked to help extricate. The same rumor continued: Patroni made love the same way he did everything else-with a long, thin cigar stuck jauntily in the side of his mouth. This was untrue, at least nowadays. Marie, having coped with several pillow fires during their early years of marriagedrawing on her training as a TWA air hostess to extinguish them-had emphatically forbidden any more cigars in hed. Joe complied with the edict because he loved his wife. He had reason to. When he married her, she was probably the most popular and beautiful hostess in the entire airline system, and twelve years and three children later she could still hold her own with most successors. There were some who wondered aloud why Marie-who had been pursued ardently by captains and first officers-had ever chosen Joe Patroni at all. But Joe, even as a young maintenance foreman, which he was when they met, had a way with him, and had kept Marie satisfied-in all important ways-ever since. Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never

panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation, deciding what priority the emergency rated, and whether or not he should complete other tasks before coping with it. In the case of the mired 707, instinct told him it was a moderate– to-acute crisis, which meant there was time to finish what he was doing, or have dinner, but not both. Accordingly, he abandoned dinner. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and threw sandwiches together for Joe to eat during his twenty-five-mfle drive to the airport. He nibbled on a sandwich now. Being recalled to the airport after performing a full day's work was not a new experience, but tonight the weather was worse than any other occasion he remembered. Accumulated effects of the three-day storm were everywhere, making driving exacting and hazardous. Huge snowpiles lined the streets and, in the darkness, more snow was falling. Both on and off freeways, traffic was moving at a crawl, or not at all. Even with mudsnow tires, which Patroni's Buick Wildcat had, traction was poor. Windshield wipers and defrosters were barely coping with gusting snow outside and steam within, while headlight beams iLluminated only short distances ahead. Stalled vehicles, some abandoned by their drivers, turned roads into obstacle courses. It was obvious that only those with good reason would be out on such a night. Patroni checked his watch. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead had been stationary for several minutes. Farther ahead stUl, he could make out others, also stopped, and to his right was another halted lane of traffic. Moreover, for some time, no vehicles had come from the opposite direction, so obviously something had happened to obstruct all four lanes. If nothing more occurred in the next five minutes, he decided, he would get out of the car to investigate, though observing the slush, drifts, and still falling snow outside, he hoped he would not have to. There would be plenty of time to become cold and miserable-as he was undoubtedly going to be before the night was out-after arrival at the airport. Meanwhile, he turned up the volume of the car radio, which was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and pulled at his cigar. Five minutes went by. Ahead, Joe Patroni could see people getting out of cars and walking forward, and he prepared to join them. He had brought a fleece-lined parka and pulled it tightly around him, slipping the bood over his head. He reached for the heavy-duty electric lantern which he always carried. As he opened the car door, wind and snow rushed in. He eased out, closing the door quickly. He plodded forward while other car doors slammed and voices called, "What happened?" Someone shouted, "There's been an accident. It's a real mess." As he progressed, flashing lights became visible ahead, and shadows moved and separated, becoming a cluster of people. A new voice said, "I'm telling you they won't clear that lot in a hurry. We'll all be stuck here for hours." A large, darker shadow loomed, partially lighted by sputtering red flares. It proved to be a massive tractor-trailer unit on its side. The cumbersome eighteenwheeled vehicle was spread across the road, blocking all traffic movement. Part of its cargo-apparently cases of canned goods-had spewed out, and already a few opportunists were braving the snow and collecting cases, then hurrying with them to their cars. Two state police patrol cars were at the scene. State troopers were questioning the truck driver, who appeared unhurt. "All I did was touch the goddam brakes," the driver protested loudly. "Then she jackknifed, and rolled over like a whore in heat." One of the policemen wrote in his notebook, and a woman murmured to a man beside her, "Do you think he's putting, that last bit down?" Another woman shouted, "Lotta good that'll do." Her voice was shrill against the wind. "Whyn't you cops get this thing moved?" One of the state troopers walked across. Most of his uniform coat was already snow-covered. "If you'll give us a hand to lift, madam, we'd be glad to oblige."

A few people tittered, and the woman muttered, "Smart ass cops." A tow truck, amber roof-beacon flashing, approached, moving slowly, on the opposite side of the obstruction. The driver was using the now unoccupied lanes on what would normally be the wrong side of the road. He stopped and got out, shaking his head doubtfully as be saw the size and position of the tractortrailer. Joe Patroni shoved forward. He puffed on his cigar, which glowed redly in the wind, and prodded the state trooper sharply on the shoulder. "Listen, son, you'll never move that ria with one tow truck. It'll be like hitching a torntit to a brick." The policeman turned. "Whatever it's like, mister, there's spilled gasoline around here. You'd better get that cigar out." Patroni ignored the instruction, as he ignored almost all smoking regulations. He waved the cigar toward the over-turned tractor-trailer. "What's more, son, you'd be wasting everybody's time, including mine and yours, trying to get that hunk of junk right side up tonight. You'll have to drag it clear so traffic can move, and to do that you need two more tow trucks-one on this side to push, two over there to pull." He began moving around, using his electric lantern to inspect the big articulated vehicle from various angles. As always, when considering a problem, he was totally absorbed. He waved the cigar once more. "The two trucks together'll hitch on to three points. They'll pull the cab first, and faster. That'll overcome the jackknifing. The other truck "Hold it," the state trooper said. He called across to one of the other officers. "Hank, there's a guy here sounds like he knows what he's talking about." Ten minutes later, working with the police officers, Joe Patroni had virtually taken charge. Two additional tow trucks, as he had suggested, were being summoned by radio. While awaiting their arrival, the driver of the first tow truck was attaching chains, under Patroni's direction, to the axles of the capsized tractor-trailer. The situation had already assumed a proficient, get-on-withit pattem-a trademark of any proceeding in which the energetic TWA maintenance chief became involved. Patroni himself had remembered several times, with concern, his reason for being out at all tonight, and the fact that by now he was long overdue at the airport. But helping to clear the blocked highway, he calculated, was the fastest means of getting there. Obviously, his own car and others could not move forward until the wrecked tractor-trailer had been dragged clear from the center of the road. To go back and try an alternate route was equally impossible because traffic behind was backed up, with continuous lines of vehicles extending –so the police assured him-for miles to the rear. He went back to his car to use the radio telephone he had installed at his employers' suggestion, and for which they picked up the monthly bills. He called the airline's maintenance department at the airport to report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld's message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and usable. Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that the most important thing was to be on the airfield himself as speedily as possible. When be left the Buick for the second time, snow was still fallina heavily. Dodging drifts which had formed around the line of waiting cars, he returned to the road block at a jog trot and was relieved to see that the first of the two extra tow trucks had arrived. 5

The elevator, which Mel Bakersfeld had taken after leaving Tanya, deposited him in the terminal basement. His official airport car-mustard yellow, and radioequipped-was in a privileged parking stall close by.

Mel drove out, meeting the storm where the building exit joined an aircraft parking ramp outside. As he left the shelter of the terminal, wind and whirling snow slammed savagely against the car's windshield. The wiper blades slapped swiftly back and forth, though barely maintaining sufficient clear space for forward vision. Through a fractionally opened window, a blast of icy air and snow rushed in. Mel closed the window hastily. The transition from the terminal's warm snugness to the harshness of the night outside was startling. Immediately ahead were airplanes parked at gate positions on the ramp. Through breaks in the snow, as the wind whipped and eddied around concourse buildings, Mel could see into the lighted interiors of several aircraft, which had passengers already seated. Obviously, several flights were ready to leave. These would be awaiting word from the tower to start engines, their continued delay a result of the blockage of runway three zero. Farther out on the airfield and runways, he could make out blur-red shapes and navigation lights of other airplanes-recent arrivals, with engines running. These were in a holding area, which pilots called the penalty box, and would move in as gate positions became vacant. Undoubtedly, the same thing was happening in the other seven aircraft concourses grouped around the terminal. The two-way radio in Mel's car, tuned to ground control frequency, crackled alive. "Ground Control to Eastern seventeen," a controller intoned, "you are cleared to runway two five. Change frequency now for your air-ways clearance." A burst of static. "Eastern seventeen. Roger." A stronger voice rasped irritably. "Ground control from Pan Am fifty-four on outer taxiway to two five. There's a private Cessna in front-a twin-engine tortoise. I'm standinQ on my brakes to keep behind.»

«Pan Arn fifty-four, stand by." The briefest pause, then the controller's voice aqain: "Cessna seven three metro froni ~yoiind control. Enter the next right intersect;f)n. ~-o',!. i ld lei Pan American pass voii.– Unexpectedly, a pleasant woman's voice responded. "Ground control from Cessna seven three tnetro. I'm turning now. Go ahead, Pan Am, you great big bully." A chuckle, then, "Thanks, honey. You can fix your lipstick while you wait." The controller's voice rebuked. "Tower to all aircraft. Confine your messages to official business." The controller was edgy, Mel could tell, despite the routine, studied calmness. But who wouldn't be tonight, with conditions and traffic the way they were? He thought uneasily again about his brother, Keith, involved with the unrelenting pressure of west arrival control. The talk between tower and aircraft was continuous, with no gaps between transmissions. When one exchange ended, Mel snapped his own mike button down. "Ground control from mobile one. I'm at gate sixty-five, proceeding to runway three zero, site of the stuck 707." He listened while the controller gave taxing instructions to two other flights which had just landed. Then: "Tower to mobile one. Roger, follow the Air Canada DC-9 pulling out of the gate ahead of you. Hold short of runway two one." Mel acknowledged. He could see the Air Canada flight, at this moment easing out from a terminal gate, its high graceful tail an angular silhouette. While still in the ramp area, he drove out toward the airfield carefully, watching for ramp lice-as airport men called the proliferation of vehicles which surrounded airplanes on the ground. As well as the usual ones, tronight there were several cherry pickers-trucks with high, maneuverable platforms at the end of steel, articulated arms. On the platforms, service crews were reaching out to clear snow from aircraft wings, and spraying glycol to retard ice formation. The men themselves were snow-covered in their exposed position. Mel braked hastily, avoiding a speeding honey wagon, on its way from the ramp area to disgorge its malodorous four-hundred gallon load of contents pumped out from aircraft toilets. The load would eject into a shredding machine in a special building which other air-port employees avoided, and then be pumped

to city sewers. Most times the procedure worked efficiently, except when passengers reported losses of items-dentures, purses, wallets, even shoes-dropped accidentally in aircraft toilets. It happened once or twice a day. Then loads had to be sifted, while everyone hoped the missing item could be located quickly. Even without incidents, Mel realized, this would be a busy night for sanitary crews. Airport managements knew from experience that demands on toilet facilities, on the ground and in the air, increased as weather worsened. Mel wondered how many people were aware that airport sanitary supervisors received hourly weather forecasts and made their plans-for extra cleaning and increased supplies-accordingly. The Air Canada jet he was to follow had cleared the terminal and was increasing taxi speed. Mel accelerated to keep up. It was reassuring-with windshield wipers barely coping with the snow-to have the DC-9's tail– light as a reference point ahead. Through the rear mirror he could make out the shape of another, larger jet now following. On radio, the ground controller cautioned, "Air France four-o-four, there is an airport ground vehicle between you and Air Canada ." It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three zero was blocked by the A6reoMexican 707. Before then, Mel had separated from the stream of taxiing aircraft which were destined for takeoff on the two other active runways. He stopped the car and got out. In the dark and loneliness out here, the storm seemed even more wintry and violent than nearer the terminal. The wind howled across the deserted runway. If wolves appeared tonight, Mel thought, it would not be surprising. A shadowy figure hailed him. "Is that Mr. Patroni? «

«No, it isn't." Mel found that he, too, bad to shout to make himself heard above the wind. "But Joe Patroni's on the wav." The otf,(-r man came closer. He was huddled into a parka, his face blue with cold. "When he gets here, we'll be glad to see him. Though I'm damned if I know what Patroni'll do. We've tried about everything to get this bastard out." He gestured to the airplane looming, shadowy, behind them. "She's stuck, but good." Mel identified himself, then asked, "Who are you? «

«Ingram, sir. A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I bad some other job." As the two men talked, they moved nearer to the stalled Boeing 707, instinctively seeking shelter under the wings and fuselage, high above them. Under the big jet's belly, a red hazard light winked rhythmically, In its reflection Mel could see the mud beneath snow in which the aircraft's wheels were deeply mired. On the runway and adjoining taxiway, clustered like anxious relatives, were a profusion of trucks and service vehicles, including a fuel tanker, baggage tenders, a post office van, two crew buses, and a roaring,power cart. Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. "We need this runway urgently-tonight. What have you done so far?" In the past two hours, Ingram reported, old-fashioned boarding ramps had been trundled from the terminal, manhandled to the aircraft, and passengers guided down them. It bad been a slow, tricky job because steps were icing as fast as they were cleared. An elderly woman had been carried down by two mechanics. Babies were passed from hand to hand in blankets. Now, all passengers were gone-in buses, along with the stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer re– mained. "Since the passengers left-have you tried to get the airplane moving?" The foreman nodded affirmatively. "Had the engines running twice. The captain's put on all the power he dare. But she won't come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper.»

«What's happening now? «

«We're taking off more weight, hoping that'll. help." Most of the fuel, Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers-a heavy load since tanks were full for takeoff. Bag age and freight compartments in the belly had been ,g emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.

Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew exactly where their mailbavs were and, if delays occurred, postal employees quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most, it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate route. Mel asked, "Have you all the help you need? «

«Yes. sir-for all we can do now. I've got most of our crew from A6reo-Mexican here-a dozen men. Right now, half of 'em are thawing out in one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas are." Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. "But if you ask me, it's going to be a long job. and we'll need heavy cranes, jacks, and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we'd have to wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow." Mel said sharply, "It can't take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This runway has to be cleared . . ." He stopped abruptly, shivering with a suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie. Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather-the fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet, strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted to the cold. From the opposite side of the airfield, above the wind, he could hear the thunder of jet m(jines. They rose to a crescendo, then diminished as a flight took off. Another followed, and another. Over there, all was well. And here? It was true, was-n't it?-for the briefest instant he had had a premonition. A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble brewing. He should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in prag– matic manaQement. Except that once, long aqo, he had had the selfsame feeling-a conviction of events accumulating, and progressing to some disastrous, unenvis– aged end. Met remembered the end, which he had been unable to avert … entirely. He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now, its outline blurring. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the inconvenience of takeoffs over Meadowood, the situation was harmless. There had been a mishap, with no injuries, no apparent damage. Not[iing more. "Let's go to my car," he told the A6reo-Mexican foreman. "We'll get on the radio and find out what's happening." On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting impatiently downtown. Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was comfortingly warm. Ingram grunted appreciatively. He loosened his coat and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air. Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance. "Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I'm at the blocked intersection of three zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When coming? Over." Danny Farrow's voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash. "Snow Desk to mobile one. Wilco. And, Mel, your wife called." Mel pressed the mike button. "Did she leave a number? «

«Affirmative.»

«Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I'm sorry, I'll be a little late. But check on Patroni first.»

«Understood. Stand by." The radio went silent. Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them to Ingram. "Thanks." They lit up, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth. Ingram nodded toward the lighted cockpit of the A6reo-Mexican jet. "Up there, that son-of-a-bitch of a

captain is probably crying into his sombrero. Next time, he'll watch blue taxi lights like they was altar candles." Mel asked, "Are your ground crews Mexicans or American? «

«We're all American. Only meatheads like us would work in this lousy weather. Know where that flight was going?" Mel shook his head. " Acapulco . Before this happened, I'd have given up six months' screwing to be on it." The foreman chuckled. "Can you imagine, though-getting aboard, and your ass all settled, then having to get off in th.is. You should have heard the passengers cursing, especially the women. I learned some new words tonight." The radio came alive again. "Snow Desk to mobile one," Danny Farrow said. "I talked with TWA about Joe Patroni. They've heard from him, but he's held up in traffic. He'll be another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me so far? «

«We read," Mel said. "Let's have the message.»

«Patroni warns not to get the airplane deeper in the mud than it is already. Says it can happen easily. So, unless the A6reo-Mexican crowd are real sure of what they're doing, they should hold off any more tries until Joe gets there." Mel glanced sideways at Ingram. "How does the A6reo-Mexican crowd feel about that?" The foreman nodded. "Patroni can have all the tries he wants. We'll wait." Danny Farrow said, "Did you get that? Is it clear?" Mel thumbed the mike button. "It's clear.»

«Okay. There's more. TWA is rounding up some extra ground crew to help. And, Mel, your wife phoned again. I gave her your message." Mel sensed Danny hesitating, aware that others whose radios were on the airport maintenance frequency were listening, too. Mel said, "She wasn't happy? «

«I guess not." There was a second's silence. "You'd better get to a phone when you can." It was a safe bet, Mel thought, that Cindy had been more than usually snippy with Danny, but, loyally, he wasn't saying so. As for the A6reo-Mexican 707, obviously there was nothing more to be done until Joe Patroni arrived. Patroni's advice about not getting the aircraft more deeply mired made good sense. Ingram was pulling on heavy mitts and refastening his coat. "Thanks for the warm-up." He went out, into the wind and snow, slamming the door quickly. A few moments later, Mel could see him plodding through deep drifts toward the assembled vehicles on the taxiway. On radio, the Snow Desk was speaking to Maintenance Snow Center . Mel waited until the exchange finished, then held the transmit button down. "This is mobile one, Danny. I'm going to the Conga Line." He eased the car forward, picking his way carefully in the blowing snow and darkness, with only widely spaced runway lights to guide him. The Conga Line, both spearhead and prime mover of the airport snow-fighting system, was-at the moment –on runway one seven, left. In a few minutes, Mel thought grin-fly, he would find out for himself if there was truth, or merely malice, in the critical report of Captain Demerest's Airlines Snow Committee. 6

The subject of Mel's thoughts-Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America –was, at the moment, some three miles from the airport. He was driving his Mercedes 230 SL Roadster and, compared with the journey he had made to the airport earlier from home, was having little trouble negotiating local streets, which had been recently plowed. Snow was still falling heavily, abetted by a strong wind, but the fresh covering on the

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

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

with a regular line captain who also held instructor's qualifications. Vernon Dernerest did. After Captain Harris's two flights, of which tonight's would be the second, he would be given a final check by a senior supervisory captain before being accepted for international command. Such checks-as well as regular six-monthly check flights, which all pilots of all airlines were required to undergo-entailed an aerial scrutiny of ability and flying habits. The checks took place on ordinary scheduled flights, and the only indication a passenger might have that one was in progress would be the presence of two four-striper captains on the flight deck up front. Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both regular and special, were usually serious, exacting sessions. The pilots wanted them that way. Too much was at stake-public safety and high professional standards-for any mutual back-scratching, or for weaknesses to be overlooked. A captain being checked was aware that he must measure up to required standards in aH respects. Failure to do so would mean an automatic adverse report which, if serious enough, could lead to an even tougher session with the airline's chief pilot, with the testee's job in jeopardy. Yet, while performance standards were not relaxed, senior captains undergoing flight checks were treated by their colleagues with meticulous courtesy. Except by Vernon Demerest. Dernerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to himself, in precisely the same waylike an errant schoolboy summoned to the headmaster's presence. Moreover, in the headmaster's role, Dernerest was officious, arrogant, condescending, and tough. He made no secret of his conviction that no one else's ability as a pilot was superior to his own. Colleagues who received this brand of treatment raged inwardly, but had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one another that when Demerest's own time came they would give him the meanest, toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with a single consistent result-Vernon Demerest turned in a flawless performance which could not be faulted. This afternoon, characteristically, Dernerest prefaced his check session by telephoning Captain Anson Harris at home. "It'll be a bad night for driving," Dernerest said without preamble. "I like my crew to be punctual, so I suggest you allow plenty of time to get to the airport." Anson Harris, who in twenty-two unblemished years with Trans America had never been late for a single flight, was so outraged, he almost choked. Fortunately, before Harris could get any words out, Captain Demcrest hung up. Still fuming, but to make absolutely sure that Derncrest would not catch him out, Captain Harris had arrived at the airport almost three hours ahead of flight time instead of the usual one hour. Captain Demerest, fresh from his stint with the Airlines Snow Committee, bad encountered Harris in the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop. Demerest was wearing a sports jacket and slacks; he kept a spare uniform in his airport locker and planned to change into it later. Captain Harris, a graying, grizzled veteran whom many younger pilots addressed as "sir," was in Trans America uniform. "Hi, Anson." Vernon Demerest dropped into an adjoining seat at the counter. "I see you took my good advice." Captain Harris's grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly, but all he said was, "Good evening, Vern.»

«We'll start the pre-flight briefing twenty minutes earlier than usual," Demerest said. "I want to check your flight manuals." Thank God, Harris thought, his wife had gone through his manuals only yesterday, inserting the very latest amendments. But he bad better check his mail slot in the dispatch office. This bastard was likely to fault him for not making an amendment published only this afternoon. To give his hands-which were itchingsomething to do, Captain Harris filled and lit his pipe. He was aware of Vernon Demerest looking at him critically.

"You're not wearing a regulation shirt." For a moment, Captain Harris could not believe his colleague was serious. Then, as he realized he was, Harris's face suffused a deep plum red. Regulation shirts were an irritant to Trans America pilots, as they were to pilots of other airlines. Obtainable through company sources, the official shirts cost nine dollars each, and were often ill fitting, their material of dubious quality. Though contrary to regulations, a much better shirt could be purchased independently for several dollars less, with the difference in appearance scarcely noticeable. Most pilots bought the tmofficial shirts and wore them. Vernon Demerest did too. On several occasions Anson Harris had heard Demerest speak disdainfully of the company's shirts and point to the superior quality of his own. Captain Dernerest motioned to a waitress for coffee, then reassured Harris, "It's all right. I won't report on your wearing a non-reg shirt here. As long as you change it before you come on my flight." Hold on! Anson Harris told himself. Dear God in heaven, give me strength not to blow, which is probably what the ornery son-of-a-bitch wants. But why? Why? All right. All right, he decided; indignity or not, he would change his unofficial shirt for a regulation one. He would not give Demerest the satisfaction of having a single miniscule check point on which to fault him. It would be difficult to get a company shirt tonight. He would probably have to borrow one-exchange shirts with some other captain or first officer. When he told them why, they would hardly believe him. He hardly believed it himself. But when Demerest's own check flight came up the next, and all others from this moment on … let him beware. Anson Harris had good friends among the supervisory pilots. Let Demerest be wearing a regulation shirt; let him hew to regulations in every other trifling way … or else. Then Harris thought glumly: The foxy bastard wil I remember; he'll make sure he does. "Hey, Anson!" Dernerest seemed amused. "You've bitten off the end of your pipe." And so he had. Remembering, Vernon Demerest chuckled. Yes, it would be an easy flight tonight-for him. His thoughts returned to the present as the apartment block elevator stopped at the third floor. He stepped into the carpeted corridor and turned to the left familiarly, heading for the apartment which Gwen Meighen shared with a stewardess of United Air Lines. The other girl, Dernerest knew because Gwen had told him, was away on an overnight flight. On the apartment door bell he tapped out their usual signal, his initials in Morse … dit-dit-dit-dah dah-dit-dit . . . then went in, using the same key which opened the door below. Gwen was in the shower. He could hear the water running. When he went to her bedroom door, she called out, " Vernon , is that you?" Even competing with the shower, her voice-with its flawless English accent, which he liked so much– sounded mellow and exciting. He thought: Small wonder Gwen had so much success with passengers. He had seen them appear to melt-the men especial ly-when her natural charm was turned toward them. He called back, "Yes, boney." Her filmy underthings were laid out on the bed-panties, sheer nylons; a transparent bra, flesh colored, with a girdle of the same material; a French silk, hand-embroidered slip. Gwen's uniform might be standard, but beneath it she believed in expensive individuality. His senses quickened; he moved his eyes away reluctantly. "I'm glad you came early," she called again. "I want to have a talk before we leave.»

«Sure, we've time.»

«You can make tea, if you like.»

«Okay.,, She had converted him to the English habit of tea at all times of (lay, though he had scarcely ever drunk tea at all until knowing Gwen. But now he often asked for it at home, a request which puzzled Sarah, particularly when he insisted on it being correctly made-the pot warmed first, as Gwen had taught him, the water still boiling at the instant it touched the tea.

He went to the tiny kitchen, where he knew his way around, and put a kettle of water on the stove. He poured milk into a jug from a carton in the refrigerator, then drank some milk himself before putting the carton back. He would have preferred a Scotch and soda, but, like most pilots, abstained from liquor for twenty-four hours before a flight. Out of habit he checked his watch; it showed a few minutes before 8:00 P.m. At this moment, he realized, the sleek, long-range Boeing 707 jet which he would command on its five-thousand mile flight to Rome , was being readied for him at the airport. He heard the shower stop. In the silence he began humming once again. Happily. 0 Sole Mio. 7

T'he blustering, biting wind across the airfield was as strong as ever, and still driving the heavily falling snow before it. Inside his car, Mel Bakersfeld shivered. He was heading for runway one seven, left, which was being plowed, after leaving runway three zero and the stranded A6reo-Mexican jet. Was the shivering due to the cold outside, Mel wondered, or to memory, which the scent of trouble a few minutes ago, plus the nagging reminder from the old injury of his foot, had triggered? The injury had happened sixteen years ago off the coast of Korea when Mel had been a Navy pilot flying fighter missions from the carrier Essex. Through the previous twelve hours (he remembered clearly, even now) he had had a presentiment of trouble coming. It wasn't fear-like others, he had learned to live with that; rather, a conviction that something fateful, possibly final, was moving inexorably toward him. Next day, in a dogfight with a MIG-15, Mel's Navy F9F-5 had been shot down inio the sea. He managed a controlled ditching, but though unhurt himself, his left foot was trapped by a jammed rudder pedal. With the airplane sinking fast-an F9F-5 had the floating characteristics of a brick-Mel used a survivalkit hunting knife to slash desperately, wildly, at his foot and the pedal. Somehow, underwater, his foot came free. In intense pain, half-drowned, he surfaced. He had spent the next eight hours in the sea before being picked up, unconscious. Later he learned he had severed the ligaments in front of his ankle, so that the foot extended from his leg in an almost straight line. In time, Navy medics repaired the foot, though Mel had never flown-as a pilot-since then. But at intervals the pain still returned, reminding him that long ago, as on other later occasions, his instinct for trouble had been right. He had the same kind of instinct now. Handling his car cautiously, being careful to retain his bearinp in the darkness and restricted visibility, Mel was nearing runway one seven, left. This was the runway which, the tower chief had indicated, Air Traffic Control would seek to use when the wind shifted as was forecast to happen soon. At the moment, on the airfield, two runways were in use: one seven, right, and runway two five. Lincoln International had five runways altogether. Through the past three days and nights they had represented the front line of the battle between the airport and the storm. The longest and widest of the five was three zero, the runway now obstructed by A6reo-Mexican. (With a change of wind and an aircraft approaching from the opposite direction, it could also be runway one two. The figures indicated compass headings of 300 and 120 degrees.) This runway was almost two miles long and as wide as a short city block; an airport joke claimed that one end could not be seen from the other because of the earth's curvature. Each of the other four runways was half a mile or so shorter, and less wide.

Without ceasing, since the storm began, the miles of runways had been plowed, vacuumed, brushed, and sanded. The motorized equipment-several million dollars' worth of roaring diesels-had stopped only minutes at a time, mainly for refueling or relieving crews. It was work which air travelers never saw at close hand because no aircraft used a fresh-cleared runway until the surface had been inspected and declared safe. Standards were exacting. Half an inch of slush or three inches of powdery snow were maximums allowable for jets. More than that would be sucked into engines and endanger operation. It was a pity, Me] Bakersfeld reflected, that runway snow teams were not more on public view. The sight was spectacular and stirring. Even now, in storm and darkness, approaching the massed equipment from the rear, the effect was impressive. Giant columns of snow cascaded to the right in arcs of a hundred and fifty feet. The arcs were framed in vehicle searchlights, and shimmered from the added color of some twenty revolving beacons-one on the roof of each vehicle in the group. Airport men called the group a Conga Line. It had a head, a tail, a body, and an entourage, and it progressed down a runway with the precision of choreography. A convoy leader was the head. He was a senior foreman from airport maintenance and drove an airport car-bright yellow, like all other equipment in the Line. The leader set the Conga Line pace, which was usually fast. He had two radios and remained permanently in touch with the Snow Desk and Air Traffic Control. By a system of lights, he could signal drivers followinggreen for "speed up," amber for "maintain pace," red for "slow down," and flashing red for "stop." He was required to carry in his head a detailed map of the airport, and must know precisely where he was, even on the darkest night, as now. Behind the convoy leader, its driver, like an orchestra's first violinist, was the number one plow-tonight a mammoth Oshkosh with a big main blade ahead, and a wing blade to the side. To the rear of number one plow, and on its right, was number two. The first plow heaved the snow aside; the second accepted the load from the first and, adding more, heaved both lots farther. Then came a Snowbiast, in echelon with the plows, six hundred roaring horsepower strong. A Snowblast cost sixty thousand dollars and was the Cadillac of snow clearance. With mighty blowers it engulfed the snow which both plows piled, and hurled it in a herculean arc beyond the runway's edge. In a second echelon, farther to the right, were two more plows, a second Snowblast. After the plows and Snowblasts came the gradersfive in line abreast, with plow blades down to clear any mounds the front plows missed. The graders towed revolving brushes, each sixteen feet wide and independently diesel powered. The brushes scoured the runway surface like monstrous yard brooms. Next were sanders. Where the eleven vehicles ahead had cleared, three hulking FWD trucks, with hoppers holding fourteen cubic yards apiece, spread sand out evenly. ne sand was special. Elsewhere around the airport, on roadways and areas which the public used, salt was added to the sand as a means of melting ice. But never for aeronautical areas. Salt corroded metal, shortening its life, and airplanes were treated with more respect than cars. Last in the Conga Line itself-"tail-end Charlie"was an assistant foreman in a second car. His job was to insure that the line stayed intact and to chivvy stragglers. He was in radio touch with the convoy leader, often out of sight ahead in snow and darkness. Finally came the entourage-a standby plow, in case one faltered in the Line; a service truck with a detail of mechanics; refueling tankers-diesel and gasoline; and –when summoned by radio at appointed times-a coffee and doughnut wagon. Mel accelerated around the entourage and positioned his car alongside the assistant foreman's. His arrival was noticed. He heard the convoy leader notified by radio, "Mr. Bakersfeld just joined us."

The Line was moving fast-close to forty miles an hour instead of its usual twenty-five. The leader had probably speeded up because of the expected wind shift and the need to have the runway open soon. Switching his radio to ATC ground frequency, Mel heard the convoy leader call the tower, ". . . on one seven, left, approaching intersection with runway two five. Reqtiest clearance over intersection." Runway two five was an active runway, now in use. "Convoy leader from ground control, hold short of the intersection. We have two flights on final approach. You may not, repeat, not, cross runway intersectioia. Acknowledge." The voice from the tower was apologetic. Up there, they understood the difficulty of stopping a rolling Conga Line, and getting it started again. But the approaching flights had undoubtedly made a tricky instru– ment descent and now were close to landing, one behind the other, Only a desperate emergency would justify sending them round again on such a night. Ahead of Mel, red lights were going on, flashing commandingly as the Conga Line slowed and stopped. The assistant foreman, a cheerful young Negro, jumped from his car and came across to Mel's. As he opened the door, the wind swept in, but could only be felt, not heard, above the encompassing roar of idling diesels. The assistant put his mouth against Mel's ear. "Say, Mr. B., how's about joining the Line? One of the boys'll take care of your car." Mel grinned. The pleasure he got, whenever he could spare time, from riding and occasionally handling heavy motorized equipment was well known around the airport. Why not? he reasoned. He had come out to inspect the snow clearance as a result of the adverse report by Vernon Demerest's Airlines Snow Committee. Clearly, the report was unjustified, and everything was going well. But maybe he should watch a few minutes longer from a ringside perch. Nodding agreement, he shouted, "Okay, I'll ride the second Snowblast.»

«Yessir!" The assistant foreman, carrying a hand searchlight and leaning against the wind, preceded Mel past the now stationary lines of sand trucks and brushes. Mel observed that already fresh snow was starting to cover the runway area cleared only moments ago, To the rear, a figure ducked from a service truck and hastened to Mel's car. "Better hurry, Mr. B. It's only a short stop." The young Negro flashed his light at the Snowblast cab, then held it steady, illuminating the way, as Mel clambered up. High above, the Snowblast driver opened the cab door and held it while Mel eased inside. On the way up, his impaired foot pained him sharply, but there was no time to wait. Ahead, the flashing red lights had already changed to green, and presumably the two approaching aircraft had now landed and were past the intersection. The Conga Line must hurry across before the next landing, perhaps only a minute or two away. Glancing to the rear, Mel could see the assistant foreman sprinting back toward his tail-end-Charlic car. The Snowblast was already moving, picking up speed with a deep-throated roar. Its driver glanced sideways as Mel slipped into one of the two soft, padded seats. "Hi, Mr. Bakersfeld.»

«How are you, Will'?" Mel recognized the man, who, when there was no snow emergency, was employed by the airport as a payroll clerk. "I'm pretty good, sir. Tired some." The driver was holding position carefully behind the third and fourth plows, their beacon lights just visible. Already the Snowblast's huge auger blades were engorging snow, cramming it to the blower. Once more, a continuous white stream was arcing outward, clear of the runway. Up here was like the bridge of a ship. The driver held his main control wheel lightly, like a helmsman. A multitude of dials and levers, glowing in the darkness, were arranged for fingertip control. Circular, high-speed windshield wipers-as on a ship-provided ports of clear vision through encrusted snow.

guess everyone's tired," Mel said. "AJI I can tell you is that this can't last forever." He watched the for-ward speed needle climb-from twenty-five to thirty, thirty to thirty-five. Swinog in his seat, Mel surveyed outside. From this position, at the center of the Conga Line, he could see the lights and shapes of the other vehicles. He noted approvingly that the formation was exact. A few years ago, in a storm like this, an airport would have closed completely. Now it didn't, mainly because ground facilities-in this one area-had caught up with progress in the air. But of how many areas of aviation could the same thing be said? Mel reflected ruefully: very few. "Oh, well," the driver said, "it makes a change from working an adding machine, and the longer this keeps up, the more extra pay there'll be when it's over." He touched a lever, tilting the cab forward to inspect the auger blades. With another control he adjusted the blades, then releveled the cab. "I don't have to do this; you know that, Mr. Bakersfeld, I volunteer. But I kinda like it out here. It's sort of He hesitated. "I dunno." Mel suggested, "Elemental? «

«I guess so." The driver laughed. "Maybe I'm snow happy.»

«No, Will, I don't believe you are." Mel swung forward, facing the way the Conga Line was moving. It was elemental here. More to the point, amid the airfields loneliness there was a feeling of closeness to aviation, the real aviation which in its simplest sense was man against the elements. You lost that kind of feeling if you stayed too long in terminals and airline office buildings; there, the extraneous, non-essential things confused you. Maybe all of us in aviation management, Mel thought, should stand at the distant end of a runway once in a while, and feel the wind on Our faces. It could help to separate detail from fundamentals It might even ventilate our brains as well. Sometimes in the past Mel had gone out onto the airfield when he needed to think, to reason quietly and alone. He had not expected to tonight, but found himself doing so now . . wondering, speculating, as he had so often in recent days, about the airport's future and his own. 8

Less than a lustrum ago, the airport was considered among the world's finest and most modern. Delegations inspected it admiringly. Civic politicians were given to pointing with pride and would huff and puff about "air leadership" and "a symbol of the jet age." Nowadays the politicians still huffed and puffed, but with less reason. What most failed to realize was that Lincoln International, like a surprising number of other major airports, was close to becoming a whited sepulcher. Mel Bakersfeld pondered the phrase whited sepulcher while riding in darkness down runway one seven, left. It was an apt definition, he thought. The airport's deficiencies were serious and basic, yet, since they were mostly out of public view, only insiders were aware of them. Travelers and visitors at Lincoln International saw principally the main passenger terminal-a brightly lighted, air-conditioned Taj Mahal. Of gleaming glass and chrome, the terminal was impressively spacious, its thronged concourses adjoining elegant waiting areas. Opulent service facilities ringed the passenger area. Six specialty restaurants ranged from a gourmet dining room, with gold-edged china and matching prices, to a grab-it-and-run hot dog counter. Bars, cozily darkened or stand-up and neon lit, were plentiful as toilets. While waiting for a flight, and without ever leaving the terminal, a visitor could shop, rent a room and bed, and take a steam bath with massage, have his hair cut, suit

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