Airport

Once more, Joe Patroni returned to the warmth of his car and telephoned
the airport. The TWA maintenance chief reported that the road between
himself and the airport was stiH blocked by the traffic accident which had
delayed him, but the chances of getting through soon looked good. Was the
A6reo-Mexican 707, he inquired, still stuck in mud out on the airfield?
Yes, he was informed, it was; furthermore, every few minutes, everyone
concerned was calling TWA to ask where he was, and how much longer he
would be, because his help was needed urgently.
Without waiting to warm himself fully, Patroni left the car and liurried
back down the highway, through the still faLling snow and deep slush
underfoot, to where the accident had occurred.
At the moment, the scene around the wrecked tractor-trailer transport
looked like a staged disaster for a wide screen movie. The mammoth
vehicle still lay on its side, blocking all four traffic lanes. By now
it was completely snow covered and, with none of its wheels touching
ground, seemed like a dead, rolled-over dinosaur. Floodlights and flares,
aided by the whiteness of the snow, made the setting seem like day. The
floodlights were on the three tow trucks which Patroni had urged sending
for, and all had now arrived. The brilliant red flares had been planted
by state police, of whom several more had appeared, and it seemed that
when a

121

state trooper lacked something to do, he lit another flare. As a result, the
display of pyrotechnics was worthy of the Fourth of July.
The arrival of a TV camera crew, a few minutes earlier, had heightened the
stage effect. The self-important crew had come with blaring horn and
illegal flashing beacon, driving down a shoulder of the road in a maroon
station wagon blazoned WSHT. Typically, the four young men who comprised
the TV crew had taken over as if the entire event had been arranged for
their convenience, and all further developments could now await th6r
pleasure. Several state troopers, having ignored the illegal beacon on the
station wagon, were engaged in waving the two trucks from their present
positions into new ones, as the TV men directed.
Before he left to make his telephone call, Joe Patroni had carefully coaxed
the two trucks into locations which would give them the best leverage,
together, to move the disabled tractor-trailer. As he left, the truck
drivers and helpers were connecting heavy chains which he knew would take
several more minutes to secure. The state police had been glad of his aid,
and a burly police lieutenant, by that time in charge at the scene, had
told the tow truck drivers to take their instructions from Patroni. But
now, incredibly, the chains were removed, except for one which a grinning
tow truck operator was handling as photofloods and a portable TV camera fo-
cused on him.
Behind the camera and lights a crowd of people, even larger than before,
had assembled from other blocked vehicles. Most were watching the TV
filming interestedly, their earlier impatience and the cold bleak misery of
the night apparently forgotten for the moment.
A sudden gust of wind slapped icy wet snow into Joe Patroni's face. Too
late, his hand went to the neck of his parka. He felt some of the snow
slide in, penetrate his shirt, and soak him miserably. Ignoring the
discomfort, he strode toward the state police lieutenant and demanded, "Who
in hell changed the trucks? The way they're lined now, you couldn't move a
peck of coondirt. All they'll do is pull each other."

"I know, Mister." The lieutenant, tall, broad-shouldered, and towering
above the short, stocky figure of Patroni, appeared fleetingly
embarrassed. "But the TV guys wanted a better shot. They're from a local
station, and it's for the news tonight-all about the storm. Excuse me."
One of the television men-himself huddled into a heavy coat-was beckoning
the lieutenant into the filming. The lieutenant, head up, and ignoring
the falling snow, walked with brisk authority toward the tow truck which
was the center of the film shot. Two state troopers followed. The
lieutenant, being careful to keep his face toward the camera, began
giving instructions, with gestures, to the tow truck operator,
instructions which were largely meaningless, but on screen would look
impressive.
The maintenance chief, remembering his need to get to the airport
speedily, felt his anger rise. He braced himself to race out, grab the
TV camera and lights, and smash them all. He could do it, too;
instinctively his muscles tightened, his breathing quickened. Then, with
an effort, he controlled himself.
A trait of character of Joe Patroni's was a white-hot, violent temper;
fortunately the violent part was not easily set off, but once it was, all
reason and logic deserted him. The exercise of control over his temper
was something he had tried to learn through his years of manhood. He had
not always succeeded, though nowadays a single memory helped.
On one occasion he had failed to have control. The result, forever after,
haunted him.
In the Army Air Forces of World War 11, Joe Patroni had been a
redoubtable amateur boxer. He fought as a middleweight and, at one point,
came within sight of the Air Forces championship, within his division,
of the European Theater.
In a bout staged in England shortly before the Normandy invasion, he had
been matched against a crew chief named Terry O'Hale, a tough, tough
Bostonian with a reputation for meanness in the ring, as well as out of
it, Joe Patroni, then a young Pfc. aviation

mechanic, knew O'Hale and disliked him. The dislike would not have
mattered if O'Hale, as a calculated part of his ring technique, had not
whispered constantly, "You greasy dago wop … Whyn't you fighting for the
other side, you mother lovin' Eytie? . . . You cheer when they shoot our
ships down, dago boy?" and other pleasantries. Patroni had seen the gambit
for what it was –an attempt to get him rattled-and ignored it until O'Hale
landed two low blows near the groin in swift succession, which the
referee, circling behind, did not observe.
The combination of insults, foul blows, and excruciating pain, produced
the anger which Patroni's opponent had counted on. What he did not count
on was that Joe Patroni would deliver an onslaught so swift, savage, and
utterly without mercy that O'Hale went down before it and, after being
counted out, was pronounced dead.
Patroni was exonerated. Although the referee had not observed the low
blows, others at ringside had. Even without them, Patroni had done no
more than was expected-fought to the limit of his skill and strength.
Only he was aware that for the space of seconds he had been berserk,
insane. Alone and later, he faced the realization that even if he had
known O'Hale was dying, he could not have stopped himself.
In the end, he avoided the clich6 of abandoning fighting, or "hanging up
his gloves for good," as the usual fiction sequence went. He had gone on
fighting, employing in the ring the whole of his physical resource, not
holding back, yet testing his own control to avoid crossing the hairline
between reason and berserk savagery. He succeeded, and knew that he had,
because there were tests of anger where reason struggled with the wild
animal inside him-and reason won. Then, and only then, did Joe Patroni
quit fighting for the remainder of his life.
But control of anger did not mean dismissing it entirely. As the police
lieutenant returned from camera range, Patroni confronted him heatedly.
"You just blocked this road an extra twenty minutes. It took ten

minutes to locate those trucks where they should be; it'll take another
ten to get them back."
As he spoke, there was the sound of a jet aircraft overhead-a reminder
of the reason for Joe Patroni's haste.
"Now listen, mister." The lieutenant's face suffused a deeper red than
it already was from cold and wind. "Get through your head that I'm in
charge here. We're glad to have help, including yours. But I'm the one
who's making decisions."
"Then make one now!11
"I'll make what I'm. . ."
"No!-you listen to me." Joe Patroni stood glaring, uninhibited by the
policeman's bulk above him. Something of the maintenance chief's
contained anger, and a hint of authority, made the lieutenant hesitate.
"There's an emergency at the airport. I already explained it; and why I'm
needed there." Patroni stabbed his glowing cigar through the air for
emphasis. "Maybe other people have reasons for hightailing it out of here
too, but mine's enough for now. There's a phone in my car. I can call my
top brass, who'll call your brass, and before you know it, somcbody'll
be on that radio of yours asking why you're polishing your TV image in-
stead of doing the job you're here for. So make a decision, the way you
said! Do I call in, or do we move?"
The lieutenant glared wrathfully back at Joe Patroni. Briefly, the
policeman seemed ready to vent his own anger, then decided otherwise. He
swung his big body toward the TV crew. "Get all that crap out of here!
You guys have had long enough."
One of the television men called over his shoulder, "We'll just be a few
minutes more, chief."
In two strides the lieutenant was beside him. "You heard me! Right now!"
The policeman leaned down, his face still fierce from the encounter with
Patroni, and the TV man visibly jumped. "Okay, okay." He motioned hastily
to the others and the lights on the portable camera went out.
"Let's have those two trucks back the way they were!" The lieutenant
began firing orders at the state

troopers, Who Moved quickly to execute them. He returned to Joe Patroni
and gestured to the overturned transport; it was clear that he had decided
Patroni was more use as an ally than an antagonist. "Mister, you still
think we have to drag this rig? You sure we can't get it upright?"
"Only if you want to block this road till daylight. You'd have to unload
the trader first, and if you do . . ."
"I know, [ know! Forget it! We'll pull and shove now, and worry about
damage later." The lieutenant gestured to the waiting line of traffic.
"If you want to get moving right after, you'd better hustle your car out
of line and move up front. You want an escort to the airport?"
Patroni nodded appreciatively. "Thanks."
Ten minutes later the last pindle tow hook snapped into place. Heavy
chains from one tow truck were secured around the axles of the disabled
transport tractor; a stout wire cable connected the chains to the tow
truck w~nch. A second tow truck was connected to the toppled trailer. The
third tow truck was behind the trailer, ready to push.
The driver from the big transport unit, which, despite its overturning,
was only partially damaged, groaned as he watched what was happening. "My
bosses ain't gonna like this! That's a near-new rig. You're gonna tear
it apart."
"If we do," a young state trooper told him, "we'll be finishing what you
started."
"Wadda you care? Ain't nothing to you I just lost a good job," the driver
grumbled back. "Maybe I should try for a soft touch next time-Re bein'
a lousy cop."
The trooper grinned. "Why not? You're already a lousy driver."
"You figure we're ready?" the lieutenant asked Patroni.
Joe Patroni nodded, He was crouching, observing the tautness of chains
and cables. He cautioned, "Take it slow and easy. Get the cab section
sliding first."
The first tow truck began pulling with its winch; its wheels skidded on
snow and the driver accelerated forward, keeping the tow chain straining.
The overturned

transport's front portion creaked, slid a foot or two with a protesting
scream of metal, then stopped.
Patroni motioned with his hand. "Keep it moving! And get the trailer
started!"
The chains and cable between the trailer axles and the second tow truck
tightened. The third tow truck pushed against the trailer roof. The
wheels of all three tow trucks skidded as they fought for purchase on the
wet, packed snow. For another two feet the tractor and trailer, still
coupled together, as they had been when they rolled over, moved sideways
across the highway to an accompanying ragged cheer from the crowd of on-
lookers. The TV camera was functioning again, its lights adding
brightness to the scene.
A wide, deep gash in the road showed where the big transport had been.
The tractor cab and the body of the loaded trailer were taking
punishment, the trailer roof beginning to angle as one side of the
trailer dragged against the road. The price to be paid-no doubt by
insurers-for reopening the highway quickly would be a steep one.
Around the road blockage, two snowplows-one on either side like
skirmishers-were attempting to clear as much as they could of the snow
which had piled since the accident occurred. Everything and everyone, by
this time, was snow covered, including Patroni, the lieutenant, state
troopers, and all others in the open.
The truck motors roared again. Smoke rose from tires, spinning on wet,
packed snow. Slowly, ponderously, the overturned vehicle shifted a few
inches, a few feet, then slid clear across to the far side of the road.
Within seconds, instead of blocking four traffic lanes, it obstructed
only one. It would be a simple matter now for the three tow trucks to
nudge the tractor-trailer clear of the highway onto the shoulder beyond.
State troopers were already moving flares, preparatory to untangling the
monumental traffic jam which would probably occupy them for several hours
to come. The sound, once again, of a jet aircraft overhead was a reminder
to Joe Patron! that his principal business this night still lay
elsewhere.

The state police lieutenant took off his cap and shook the snow from it. He
nodded to Patroni. "I guess it's your turn, mister."
A patrol car, parked on a shoulder, was edging onto the highway. The
lieutenant pointed to it. "Keep close up behind that car. I've told them
you'll be following, and they've orders to get you to the airport fast."
Joe Patroni nodded. As he climbed into his Buick Wildcat, the lieutenant
called after him, "And mister … Thanks!"

2

Captain Vernon Demerest stood back from the cupboard door he had opened, and
emitted a long, low whistle.
He was still in the kitchen of Gwen Meighen's apartment on Stewardess Row.
Gwen had not yet appeared after her shower and, while waiting, he had made
tea as she suggested. It was while looking for cups and saucers that he had
opened the cupboard door.
In front of him were four tightly packed shelves of bottles. All were
miniature bottles of liquor-the ounce-and-a-half size which airlines served
to passengers in flight. Most of the bottles had small airline labels above
their brand names, and all were unopened. Making a quick calculation,
Demerest estimated there were close to three hundred.
He had seen airline liquor in stewardesses' apartments before, but never
quite so much at one time.
"We have some more stashed away in the bedroom," Gwen said brightly from
behind him. "We've been saving them for a party. I think we've enough,
don't you?"
She had come into the kitchen quietly, and he turned.

As always since the beginning of their affair, he found the first sight of
her enchanting and refreshing. Unusual for one who never lacked confidence
with women, he had at such moments a heady sense of wonder that he had ever
possessed Gwen at all. She was in a trim uniform skirt and blouse which made
her seem even younger than she was. Her eager, high-cheekboned face was
tilted upward, her rich black hair lustrous under the kitchen lights. Gwen's
deep dark eyes regarded him with smiling, frank approval. "You can kiss me
hard," she said. "I haven't put on makeup yet."
He smiled, her clear melodious English voice delighting him again. As girls
from upper-crust British private schools somehow managed to do, Gwen had
captured all that was best in English intonation and avoided the worst. At
times, Vernon Dernerest encouraged Gwen to talk, merely for the joy of
hearing her speak.
Not talking now, they held each other tightly, her lips responding eagerly
to his.
After a minute or so, Gwen pushed herself away. "No!" she insisted firmly.
"No, Vernon dear. Not here."
"Why not? We've time enough." There was a thickness to Demerest's voice, a
rough impatience.
"Because I told you-1 want to talk, and we don't have time for both." Gwen
rearranged her blouse which had parted company with the skirt.
"Hell!" he grumbled. "You bring me to the boil, and then . . . Oh, all
right; I'll wait till Naples." He kissed her more gently. "All the way to
Europe you can think of me up there on the flight deck, turned to
'simmer."'
"I'll bring you to the boil again. I promise." She laughed, and leaning
close against him, passed her long slim fingers through his hair and around
his face.
He groaned. "My God!-you're doing it right now."
"Then that's enough." Gwen took his hands, which were around her waist, and
pushed them resolutely from her. Turning away, she moved to close the
cupboard he bad been looking into.
"Hey, wait a minute. What about all those?" Dem-

erest pointed to the miniature liquor bottles with their airline labels.
"Those?" Gwen surveyed the four crowded shelves, her eyebrows arched, then
switched to an expression of injured innocence. "They're just a few little
old leftovers that passengers didn't want. Surely, Captain, sir, you're not
going to report me for possession of leftovers."
He said skeptically, "That many?"
"Of course." Gwen picked up a bottle of Beefeater gin, put it down and
inspected a Canadian Club whisky. "One nice thing about airlines is, they
always buy the best brands. Care for one now?"
He shook his head. "You know better than that."
"Yes, I do; but you shouldn't sound so disapproving."
"I just don't want you to get caught."
"Nobody gets caught, and almost everybody does it. Look-every first class
passenger is entitled to two of these little bottles, but some passengers
use only one, and there are always others who won't have any."
"The rules say you turn back all the unused ones."
"Oh, for heaven's sake! So we do-a couple for appearances, but the rest the
girls divide between them. The same thing goes for wine that's left over."
Gwen giggled. "We always like a passenger who asks for more wine near the
end of a trip. That way, we can officially open a fresh bottle, pour off
one glass . .
"I know. And take the rest home?"
"You want to see?" Gwen opened another cupboard door. Inside were a dozen
filled wine bottles.
Demerest grinned. "I'll be damned."
"This isn't all mine. My roommate and one of the girls next door have been
saving theirs for the party we're planning." She took his arm. "You'll
come, won't you?"
"If I'm invited, I guess."
Gwen closed both cupboard doors. "You will be."
They sat down in the kitchen, and she poured the tea he had made. He
watched admiringly while she did it. Gwen had a way of making even a casual
session like this seem an occasion.

He noticed With amusement that she produced cups from a pile in another
cupboard, all bearing Trans America insignia. They were the kind the
airline used in flight. He supposed be should not have been stuffy about
the airline liquor bottles; after all, stewardess "perks" were nothing
new. It was just that the size of the hoard amazed him.
All airline stewardesses, he was aware, discovered early in their careers
that a little husbandry in airplane galleys could relieve their cost of
living at home. Stewardesses learned to board their flights with personal
hand baggage which was partially empty, using the space for surplus
food-always of highest quality, since airlines purchased nothing but the
best. A Thermos jug, brought aboard empty, was useful for carrying off
spare liquids –cream or even decanted champagne. If a stewardess was
really enterprising, Demerest was once assured, she could cut her weekly
grocery bill in half. Only on international flights where, by law, all
food-untoucbed or otherwise-was incinerated immediately after landing,
were the aii k more cautious.
All this activity was strictly forbidden by regulations of all
airlines-but it still went on.
Another thing stewardesses learned was that no inventory check of
removable cabin equipment was ever made at the termination of a flight.
One reason was that airlines simply didn't have time; another, it was
cheaper to accept some losses than make a fuss about them. Because of
this, many stewardesses managed to acquire home furnishings-blankets,
pillows, towels, linen napkins, glasses, silverware-in surprising
quantity, and Vernon Dernerest had been in stewardess nests where most
items used in daily living seemed to have come from airline sources.
Gwen broke in on his thoughts. "What I was going to tell you, Vernon, is
that I'm pregnant."
It was said so casually that at first the words failed to register. He
reacted blankly. "You're what?"
"Pregnant-p-r-e-g-n …
He snapped irritably, "I know bow to spell it." His mind wasitill
groping. "Are you sure?"

Gwen laughed-her attractive silvery laugh-and sipped her tea. He sensed'she
was making fun of him. He was also aware that she had never looked more
lovely and desirable than at this moment.
"That lire you just said, darling," she assured him, "is an old clich6. In
every book I've ever read where there's a scene like this, the man asks,
'Are you sureT "
"Well, goddammit, Gwen!" His voice rose. "Are you?"
"Of course. Or I wouldn't be telling you now." She motioned to the cup in
front of him. "More tea?"
"No!"
"What happened," Gwen said calmly, "is perfectly simple. On that layover we
had in San Francisco . . . you remember?-we stayed at that gorgeous hotel
on Nob Hill; the one with the view. What was it called?"
"The Fairmont. Yes, I remember. Go on."
"Well, I'm afraid I was careless. I'd quit taking pills because they were
making me overweight; then I thought I didn't need any other precautions
that day, but it turned out I was wrong. Anyway, because 1 was careless,
now I have a teensy-weensy little Vernon Demerest inside me who's going to
get bigger and bigger."
There was a silence, then he said awkwardly, "I suppose I shouldn't ask
this . . ."
She interrupted. "Yes, you should. You're entitled to ask." Gwen's deep
dark eyes regarded him with open honesty. "What you want to know is, has
there been anyone else, and am I positive it's you? Right?"
"Look, Gwen. . ."
She reached out to touch his hand. "You don't have to be ashamed of asking.
I'd ask too, if things were the other way around."
He gestured unhappily. "Forget it. I'm sorry."
"But I want to tell you." She was speaking more hurriedly now, a shade less
confidently. "There hasn't been anybody else; there couldn't be. You see .
. . I happen to love you." For the first time her eyes were lowered. She
went on, "I think I did. . . I know I did … love you, I mean-even before
that time we had in San Francisco. When I've thought about it, I've been
glad of

that, because you ought to love someone if you're to have his baby, don't
you think so?"
" Listen to me, Gwen." He covered her hands with his own. Vernon Demerest's
hands were strong and sensitive, accustomed to responsibility and control,
yet capable of precision and gentleness. They were gentle now. Women he
cared about always had that effect on him, in contrast to the couth
brusqueness with which he dealt with men. "We have to do some serious
talking, and make some plans." Now that the first surprise was over, his
thoughts were becoming orderly. It was perfectly clear what needed to be
done next.
"You don't have to do anything." Gwen's head came up; her voice was under
control. "And you can stop wondering whether I'm going to be difficult, or
whether I'll make things awkward for you. I won't. I knew what I was
getting into; that there was the chance this would happen. I didn't really
expect it to, but it has. I had to tell you tonight because the baby's
yours; it's part of you; you ought to know. Now you do, I'm also telling
you you don't have to worry. I intend to work things out myself."
"Don't be ridiculous; of course I'll help. You don't imagine I'd walk away
and ignore the whole bit." The essential thing, he realized, was speed; the
trick with unwanted fetuses was to get the little beggars early. He
wondered if Gwen had any religious scruples about abortions. She had never
mentioned having a religion, but sometimes the most –unlikely people were
devout. He asked her , "Are you Catholic?"
"No. 11

Well, he reflected, that helped. Maybe, then, a quick flight to Sweden
would be the thing; a few days there was all Gwen would need. Trans America
would cooperate, as airlines always did, providing they were not officially
involved-the word "abortion" could be hinted at, but must never be
mentioned. That way, Gwen could fly deadhead on a Trans America flight to
Paris, then go by Air France to Stockholm on a reciprocal employee pass. Of
course, even when she got to Sweden, the medical fees would still be
damnably ex-

pensive; tbcre was a jest among airline people that the Swedes took their
overseas abortion customers to the clinic and the cleaners at the same time.
The whole thing was cheaper in Japan, of course. Lots of airline
stewardesses flew to Tokyo and got abortions there for fifty dollars. The
abortions were supposed to be therapeutic, but Demerest mistrusted them;
Sweden-or Switzerland-were more reliable. He had once declared: when he got
a stewardess pregnant, she went first class.
From his own point of view, it was a bloody nuisance that Gwen had got a
bun in the oven at this particular time, just when he was building an
extension on his house which, be remembered gloomily, had already gone over
budget. Oh well, he would have to sell some stock-General Dynamics,
probably; he had a nice capital gain there, and it was about time to take
a profit. He would call his broker right after getting back from Rome-and
Naples.
He asked, "You're still coming to Naples with me?"
"Of course; I've been looking for-ward to it. Besides, I bought a new
negligee. You'll see it tomorrow night."
He stood up from the table and grinned. "You're a shameless hussy."
"A shameless pregnant hussy who shamelessly loves you. Do you love me?"
She came to him, and he kissed her mouth, face, and an ear. He probed her
pinna with his tongue, felt her arms tighten in response, then whispered,
"Yes, I love you." At the moment, he reflected, it was true.
,'Vernon, dear."
"Yes?"
Her check was soft against his. Her voice came, muffled, from his shoulder.
"I mean what I said. You don't have to help me. But if you really want to,
that's different."
"I want to." He decided he would sound her out about an abortion, on their
way to the airport.
Gwen disengaged herself and glanced at her watch; it was 8:20. "It's time,
Captain, sir. We'd better go."

"I guess you know you really don't have to worry," Vernon Demerest said to
Gwen as they drove. "Airlines are used to having their unmarried
stewardesses get pregnant. It happens all the time. The last report I read,
the national airline average was ten percent, per year."
Their discussion, he noted approvingly, was becoming increasingly
matter-of-fact. Good!-it was important to steer Gwen away from any
emotional nonsense about this baby of hers. If she did become emotional,
Demerest knew, all sorts of awkward things could happen, impeding
commonsense.
He was handling the Mercedes carefully, with the delicate yet firm touch
which was second nature to him when controlling any piece of machinery,
including a car or airplane. The suburban streets, which were newly cleared
when he drove from the airport to Gwen's apartment, were thickly
snow-covered again. Snow was still coming down continuously, and there were
deepening drifts in wind-exposed places, away from the shelter of
buildings. Captain Demerest warily skirted the larger drifts. He had no
intention of getting stuck nor did he even want to get out of the car until
the shelter of the enclosed Trans America parking lot was reached.
Curled into the leather bucket seat beside him, Gwen said incredulously,
"Is that really true-that every year, ten out of every hundred stewardesses
get pregnant?"
He assured her, "It varies slightly each year, but it's usually pretty
close. Oh, the pill has changed things a bit, but the way I hear it, not as
much as you'd expect. As a union officer I have access to that kind of
information."
He waited for Gwen to comment. When she made none, he went on, "What you
have to remember is that airline stewardesses are mostly young girls, from
the country, or modest city homes. They've had a quiet upbringing, an
average life. Suddenly, they have a glamour job; they travel, meet
interesting people, stay in the best hotels. It's their first taste of la
dolce vita." He grinned. "Once in a while that first taste leaves some
sediment in the glass."
"That's a rotten thing to say!" For the first time since

he had known her, Gwen's temper flared. She said indignantly, "You sound so
superior; just like a man. If I have any sediment in my glass, or in me, let
me remind you that it's yours, and even if we didn't plan to leave it there,
I think I'd find a better name for it than that. Also, if you're lumping me
together with all those girls you talked about from the country and 'modest
city homes,' I don't like that one damn bit either."
There was heightened color in Gwen's cheeks; her eyes flashed angrily.
"Hey!" he said. "I like your spirit."
"Well, keep on saying things like you did just now, and you'll see more of
it."
"Was I that bad?"
"You were insufferable."
"Then I'm sorry." Dernerest slowed the car and stopped at a traffic light
which shone with myriad red reflections through the falling snow. They
waited in silence until, with Christmas card effect, the color winked to
green. When they were moving again, be said carefully, "I didn't mean to
lump you with anybody, because you're an exception. You're a sophisticate
who got careless, You said you did, yourself. I guess we were both
careless."
"All right." Gwen's anger was dissipating. "But don't ever put me in
bunches. I'm me; no one else."
They were quiet for several moments, then Gwen said thoughtfully, "I
suppose we could call him that."
"Call who what?"
"You made me remember what I said earlier-about a little Vernon Dernerest
inside me. If we had a boy, we could call him Vernon Demerest, Junior, the
way Americans do."
He had never cared much for his own name. Now he
began to say, "I wouldn't want my sonthen
stopped. This was dangerous ground.
"What I started to say, Gwen, was that airlines are used to this kind of
thing. You know about the ThreePoint Pregnancy Program?"
She said ,hortly, "Yes."
It was natural that Gwen did. Most stewardesses were

aware of what airlines would do for them if they became pregnant, providing
the stewardess herself agreed to certain conditions. Within Trans America
the system was referred to familiarly as the "3-PPP." Other airlines used
differing names, and arrangements varied slightly, but the principle was the
same.
"I've known girls who've used the 3-PPP," Gwen said. "I didn't think I'd
ever need to."
"Most of the others didn't, I guess." He added: "But you wouldn't need to
worry. It isn't something that airlines advertise, and it all works
quietly. How are we for time?"
Gwen held her wrist watch under the light of the dash. "We're okay."
He swung the Mercedes into a center lane carefully, judging his traction on
the wet, snowy surface, and passed a lumbering utilities truck. Several
men, probably an emergency crew, were clinging to the sides of the truck as
it moved along. They looked weary, wet, and miserable. Demerest wondered
what the men's reaction would be if they knew that he and Gwen would be
under warm Neapolitan sunshine only hours from now.
"I don't know," Gwen said; "I don't know if I could ever do it."
Like Demerest, Gwen knew the reasoning of management which lay behind
airline pregnancy programs. No airline liked losing stewardesses for any
reason. Their training was expensive; a qualified stewardess represented a
big investment. Another thing: the right kind of girls, with good looks,
style, and personality, were hard to find.
The way the programs worked was practical and simple. If a stewardess
became pregnant, and did not plan to be married, obviously she could return
to her job when her pregnancy was over, and usually her airline would be
delighted to have her back. So, the arrangement was, she received official
leave of absence, with her job seniority protected. As to her personal
welfare, airline personnel departments had special sections which, among
other things, would help make medical or nursing home arrangements, either
where a

girl lived or at some distant point, whichever she preferred. The airline
helped psychologically, too, by letting the girl know that someone cared
about her, and was looking out for her interest. A loan of money could
sometimes be arranged. Afterward, if a stewardess who had had her child
was diffident about returning to her original base, she would be quietly
transferred to a new one of her own choosing.
In return for all this, the airline asked three assurances from the
stewardess-hence the Three-Point Pregnancy Program.
First, the girl must keep the airline personnel department informed of
her whereabouts at all times during her pregnancy.
Second, she must agree that her baby be surrendered for adoption
immediately after birth. The girl would never know the baby's adoptive
parents; thus the child would pass out of her life entirely. However, the
airline guaranteed that proper adoption procedures would be followed,
with the baby being placed in a good home.
Third-at the outset of the three-point program the stewardess must inform
the airline of the name of the child's father. When she had done so, a
representative from Personnel-experienced in such situationspromptly
sought out the father with the objective of obtaining financial support
for the girl. What the personnel man tried to obtain was a promise, in
writing, of enough money to cover medical and nursing home expenses and,
if possible, some or all of the stewardess's lost wages. Airlines
preferred such arrangements to be amiable and discreet. If they had to,
though, they could get tough, using their considerable corporate
influence to bring pressure on non-cooperating individuals.
It was seldom necessary to be tough where the father of a stewardess's
baby was a flying crew member-a captain, or first or second officer. In
such cases, gentle company suasion, plus the father's wish to keep the
whole thing quiet, were usually enough. As to keeping quiet, the company
obliged. Temporary support payments could be made in any reasonable way,
or, if pre-

fcrred, the airline made regular deductions from the employee's 'pay checks.
Just as considerately, to avoid awkward questions at home, such deductions
appeared under the heading: "personal misc."
All money received by these means was paid, in its entirety, to the
pregnant stewardess. The airline deducted nothing for its own costs.
"The whole point about the program," Dernerest said, "is that you're not
alone, and there's all kinds of help."
He had been careful of one tbing-to avoid any reference, so far, to
abortion. That was a separate subject because no airline would, or could,
become directly involved in abortion arrangements. Advice on the subject
was frequently given unofficially to those who sought it-by stewardess
super-visors who learned, through experience of others, how such
arrangements could be made. Their objective, if a girl was determined on
abortion, was to insure its performance under safe medical conditions,
avoiding at all costs the dangerous and disreputable practitioners whom
desperate people sometimes resorted to.
Gwen regarded her companion curiously. "Tell me one thing. How is it you
know so much about all this?"
"I told you, I'm a union officer. . ."
"You're part of the ALPA's for pilots. You don't have anything to do with
stewardesses-not in that way, anyhow."
"Maybe not directly."
"Vernon, this has happened to you before … getting a stewardess pregnant
… Vernon, hasn't it?"
He nodded reluctantly. "Yes."
"It must come pretty easily to you, knocking up stewardesses-those gullible
country girls you were talking about. Or were they mostly from 'modest city
homes'?" Gwen's voice was bitter. "How many have there been altogether','
Two dozen, a dozen? Just give me an idea in round figures
He sighed. One; only one."
He had been incredibly lucky, of course. It could have been many more, but
his answer was the truth.

Well … almost the truth; there was that other time, and the miscarriage,
but that shouldn't count.
Outside the car, traffic density was increasing as they neared the
airport, now less than a quarter mile away. The bright lights of the
great terminal, though dimmed tonight by snow, still fffled the sky.
Gwen said, "The other girl who got pregnant. I don't want to know her
name..
"I wouldn't tell you."
"Did she use the thingummy-tbe three-point program?"
"Yes.
"Did you help her?"
He answered impatiently, "I said earlier-wbat kind of a man do you think
I am? Of course I helped her. If you must know, the company made
deductions from my pay checks. That's how I knew about the way it's
done."
Gwen smiled. " 'Personal misc.T
"Yes.,,

"Did your wife ever know?"
He hesitated before answering. "No."
"What happened to the baby?"
"It was adopted."
"What was it?"
"Just a baby."
"You know perfectly well what I mean. Was it a boy or a girl?"
"A girl, I think."
"You think."
"I know. It was a girl."
Gwen's questioning made him vaguely uncomfortable. It revived memories
be would as soon forget.
They were silent as Vernon Dernerest swung the Mercedes into the
airport's wide and imposing main entry. High above the entry, soaring and
floodlighted, were the futuristic parabolic arches-acclaimed achievement
of a world-wide design contest-symbolizing, so it was said, the noble
dreams of aviation. Ahead was an impressive, serpentine complex of roads,
interchanges, flyovers, and tunnels, designed to keep the airport's
unceasing vehic-

ular traffic flowing at high speed, though tonight the elfects of the
three-day storm were makin,-z progress slower than usual. Great mounds of
snow were occupying normally usable road space. Snowplows and dump trucks,
trying to keep remaining areas open, were adding their own confusion.
After several brief hold-ups, Demerest turned onto the service road which
would bring them to the Trans America main hangar area, where they would
leave the car and take a crew bus to the terminal.
Gwen stirred beside him. "Vernon."
'Yes.
"Thank you for being honest with me." She reached out touching his nearer
hand on the steering wheel. "I'll be all right. I expect it was just a bit
much, all at once. And I do want to go with you to Naples."
He nodded and smiled, then took his hand off the wheel and clasped Gwen's
tightly. "We'll have a great time, and I promise we'll both remember it."
He would do his best, he decided, to ensure the promise came true. For
himself, it would not be difficult. He had been more attracted to Gwen, had
felt more loving in her company, and closer in spirit, than with anyone
else he remembered. If it were not for his marriage . . . He wondered, not
for the first time, about breaking with Sarah, and marrying Gwen. Then he
pushed the thought away. He had known too many others of his profession who
had suffered upheavalpilots who forsook wives of many years, for younger
women. More often than not, all the men had in the end were shattered hopes
and heavy alimony.
Sometime during their trip, though, either in Rome or Naples, he must have
another serious discussion with Gwen. Their talk, so far, had not gone
exactly as he would have liked, nor had the question of an abortion yet
been raised.
Meanwhile-the thought of Rome reminded himthere was the more immediate
matter of his command of Trans America Flight Two.

3

The key was to room 224 of the O'Hagan Inn.
In the semidarkened locker area adjoining the air traffic control radar
room, Keith Bakersfeld realized he had been staring at the key and its
identifying plastic tag for several minutes. Or had it been seconds only?
It might have been. Just lately, like so much else, the passage of time
seemed inconstant and disoriented. Sometimes at home recently, Natalie had
found him standing quite still, looking into nothingness. And when she had
asked, with concern, Why are you there?, only then had he become awakened
to where he was, and had resumed movement and conscious thinking.
What had happened, he supposed-then and a moment ago-was that his worn,
weary mind had switched itself off. Somewhere inside the brain's intrica-
cies-of blood vessels, sinew, stored thought, and emotion-was a tiny
switch, a self-defense mechanism like a thermal cutout in an electric
motor, which worked when the motor was running too hot and needed to be
saved from burning itself out. The difference, though, between a motor and
a human brain, was that a motor stayed out of action if it needed to.
A brain would not.
The floodlights outside, on the face of the control tower, still reflected
enough light inward through the locker room's single window for Keith to
see. Not that he needed to see. Seated on one of the wooden benches, the
sandwiches Natalie had made, untouched, beside him, he was doing nothing
more than holding the O'Hagan Inn key and thinking, reflecting on the par-
adox of the human brain.
A human brain could achieve soaring imagery, conceive poetry and
radarscopes, create the Sistine Chapel and a supersonic Concord6. Yet a
brain, tooholding memory and conscience-could be compelling,

self-tormenting, never resting; so that only death could end its
persecution.
Death . . . with oblivion, forgetfulness; with rest at last.
It was the reason that Keith Bakersfeld had decided on suicide tonight.
He must go back soon to the radar room. There were still several hours
of his shift remaining, and he had made a pact with himself to finish his
air traffic control duty for tonight. He was not sure why, except that
it seemed the right thing to do, and he had always tried to do the right
thing, conscientiously. Perhaps being conscientious was a family trait;
he and his brother Mel always seemed to have that much in common.
Anyway, when the duty was done-his final obligation finished-he would be
free to go to the O'Hagan Inn, where he had registered late this
afternoon. Once there, without wasting time, he would take the forty
Nembutal capsules-sixty grains in all-which were in a drugstore pillbox
in his pocket. He had husbanded the capsules, a few at a time, over
recent months. They bad been prescribed to give him sleep, and from each
prescription which Natalie's druggist had delivered, he had carefully
extracted half and hidden it. A few days ago he had gone to a library,
checking a reference book on clinical toxicology to assure himself that
the quantity of Nembutal he had was well in excess of a fatal dose.
His present duty shift would end at midnight. Soon after, when he had
taken the capsules, sleep would come quickly and with finality.
He looked at his watch, holding its face toward the light from outside.
It was almost nine o'clock. Should he return to the radar room now?
No-stay a few minutes longer. When he went, he wanted to be calm, his
nerves steady for whatever these last few hours of duty might contain.
Keith Bakersfeld fingered the O'Hagan Inn key again. Room 224.
It was strange about the coincidence of figures; that his roorn number
tonight, allocated by chance, should have in it a "24." There were people
who believed in

that kind of thing-numerology; the occult significance of numbers. Keith
didn't, though if he did, those third and last figures, prefaced by a "T'
could be taken to mean 24 for the second time.
The first 24 had been a date, a year and a half ago. Keith's eyes misted,
as they had so many times before, when he remembered. The date was
seared-with selfreproach and anguish-in his memory. It was the wellspring
of his darksome spirit, his utter desolation. It was the reason he would
end his life tonight.
A summer's day; morning. Thursday, June the twenty-fourth.

It was a (lay for poets, lovers, and color photographers; the kind of day
which people stored up in their minds, to open like a scrapbook when they
wanted to remember, years later, all that was best of any time and place.
In Leesburg, Virginia, not far from historic Harpers Ferry, the sky was
clear at dawn-CAVU, the weather reports said, which is aviation shorthand
for 11 ceiling and visibility unlimited"; and conditions stayed that way,
except for a few cotton-wool tufts of scattered cumulus by afternoon. The
sun was warm, but not oppressive. A gentle breeze from the Blue Ridge Moun-
tains carried the scent of honeysuckle.
On his way to work that morning-driving to the Washington Air Route Traffic
Control Center at Leesburg-Keith Bakersfeld had seen wild roses blooming.
He thought of a line from Keats which he had learned in high school-"For
Summer has o'erbrimmed It seemed appropriate to such a day.
He had driven, as usual, across the Virginia border –from Adamstown,
Maryland, where he and Natalie, with their two boys shared a pleasant
rented home. The top of the Volkswagen convertible was down; he bad
traveled without baste, enjoying the benevolence of air and sun, and when
the familiar low, modern buildings of the Air Route Center came in sight,
he had felt less tense than usual. Afterward, he wondered if that, in
itself, had been a cause of the events which followed.
Even inside the Operations Wing-thick-walled and

windowless, where daylight never penetrated-Keith had an impression that
the glory of the summer's day outside had somehow percolated inward. Among
the seventy or more shirtsleeved controllers on duty there seemed a sense
of lightness, in contrast to the pressuredriven earnestness with which
work proceeded on most days of the year. One reason, perhaps, was that the
traffic load was less than usual, due to the exceptionally clear weather.
Many non-commercial flights-private, military, even a few airliners-were
operating on VFR –"visual flight rules," or the see-and-be-seen method by
which aircraft pilots kept track of their own progress through the air,
without need to report by radio to ATC air route controllers.
The Washington Air Route Center at Leesburg was a key control point. From
its main operations room aH air traffic on airways over six eastern
seaboard states was observed and directed. Added up, the control area
came to more than a hundred thousand square miles. Within that area,
whenever an aircraft which had filed an instrument flight plan left an
airport, it came under Leesburg observation and control. It remained
under that control either until its journey was complete or it passed out
of the area. Aircraft coming into the area were banded over from other
control centers, of which there were twenty across the continental United
States. The Leesburg center was among the nation's busiest. It included
the southern end of the "northeast corridor" which daily accommodated the
world's heaviest concentration of air traffic.
Oddly, Leesburg was distant from any airport, and forty miles from
Washington, D.C., from which the Air Route Center took its name. The
center itself was in Virginia countryside-a cluster of low, modem build-
ings with a parking lot-and was surrounded on three sides by rolling
farmland. Nearby was a small stream named Bull Run-its fame enshrined
forever by two battles of the Civil War. Keith Bakersfeld had once gone
to Bull Run after duty, reflecting on the strange and diametric contrast
between Leesburg's past and present.
This morning, despite awareness of the summer's day

outside, everything in the spacious, cathedral-like main control room was
operating as usual. The entire control area-larger than a football
field-was, as always, dimly lighted to allow proper viewing of the several
dozen radar screens, arranged in tiers and rows under overhanging
canopies. The control room noise level was what any newcomer noticed
first. From a flight data area, with great banks of computers, assorted
electronic gear and automatic teletypes, arose the continuous whir and
chatter of' machinery. Nearby, from dozens of positions where controllers
sat, directing aerial traffic, came a ceaseless hum of voice radio
exchanges on a host of frequencies. The machinery and human voices merged,
producing a constant noise level which was all-pervading, yet strangely
muted by acoustic, sound-absorbent walls and ceilings.
Above the working level of the control room was an observation bridge,
running the room's full width, where occasional visitors were brought to
watch proceedings below. The control room activity looked, from this
eyrie, not unlike that of a stock exchange. Controllers rarely glanced
up at the bridge, being trained to ignore anything which might diminish
concentration on their work, and since only a few especially privileged
visitors ever made it to the control room floor, controllers and
outsiders rarely met. Thus the work was not only high pressure, but also
monastic-the last condition added to by the total absence of women.
In an annex to the control room Keith slipped off his jacket, and came
in wearing the crisp white shirt which was like a uniform for air traffic
controllers. No one knew why controllers wore white shirts on duty; there
was no rule about it, but most of them did. As he passed other control
positions while heading for his own, a few colleagues wished him a
friendly "good morning," and that was unusual too. Normally, the
immediate sense of pressure on entering the control area made it
customary to give a hurried nod or a brief "Hi! "-sometimes not even
that.
The control sector which Keith regularly worked comprised a segment of
the Pittsburgh-Baltimore area.

The sector was monitored by a team of three. Keith was radar contioller, his
job to maintain contact with aircraft and to issue radio instructions. Two
assistant controllers handled flight data and airport communications; a
supervisor coordinated activities of the other three. Today, in addition,
the team had a trainee controller whom Keith had been instructing, at
intervals, over the past several weeks.
Others of the team were drifting in at the same time as Keith Bakersfeld,
taking position behind the men they were to relieve, and allowing a few
minutes while they absorbed the "picture" in their minds. All through the
big control room, at other positions, the same thing was happening.
Standing at his own sector, behind the radar controller about to go ofT
duty, Keith already felt his mental acuity sharpen, his speed of thinking
consciously accelerate. For the next eight hours, except for two brief work
breaks, his brain must continue to operate that way.
Traffic, he observed, was averagely busy for the time of day, taking into
account the widespread good weather. On the scope's dark surface, some
fifteen pinpoints of bright green light-or "targets," as radarmen called
them-indicated aircraft in the air. Allegheny had a Convair 440 at eight
thousand feet, approaching Pittsburgh. Behind the Allegheny Right, at
varying altitudes, was a National DC-8, an American Airlines 727, two
private aircraft-a Lear jet and a Fairchild F-27-and another National, this
time a prop-jet Electra. Several other flights, Keith noted, were due to
come on the screen at any moment, both from other sectors and as a result
of takeoffs from Friendship Airport, Baltimore. Going the opposite way,
toward Baltimore, was a Delta DC-9, about to be taken over by Friendship
approach control; behind this flight were a TWA, a Piedmont Airlines
Martin, another private flight, two Uniteds, and a Mohawk. Height and
distance separations of all airCraft were satisfactory, Keith observed,
except that the two Uniteds heading for Baltimore were a little close. As
if the controller still at the scope had read Keith's

mind, he gave the second United a delaying diversionary course.
"I have the picture," Keith said quietly. The other controller nodded and
moved out.
Keith's supervisor, Perry Yount, plugged in his headset above Keith's
head and leaned over, making his own assessment of the traffic situation.
Perry was a tall, lean Negro, a few years younger than Keith. He had a
quick, retentive memory which could store a mass of flight data, then
repeat it back, as a whole or in pieces, with computer accuracy. Perry
was a comforting man to have around when there was trouble.
Keith had already accepted several new flights and handed over others
when the supervisor touched his shoulder. "Keith, I'm running two
positions this shiftthis and the next one. We're a man short. You okay
for a while?"
Keith nodded. "Roger." He radioed a course correction to an Eastern 727,
then motioned toward the trainee controller, George Wallace, who had
slipped into a seat beside him. "I've got George to keep an eye on me.),
"Okay." Perry Yount unplugged his headset and moved to the adjacent
console. The same kind of thing had happened occasionally before, and was
handled without ditliculty. Perry Yount and Keith had worked together for
several years; each was aware that he could trust the other.
Keith told the trainee beside him, "George, start getting the picture."
George Wallace nodded and edged closer to the radarscope. He was in his
mid-twenties, had been a trainee for almost two years; before that, he
had served an enlistment in the U. S. Air Force. Wallace had already
shown himself to have an alert, quick mind, plus the ability not to
become rattled under tension. In one more week he would be a qualified
controller, though for practical purposes he was fully trained now.
Deliberately, Keith allowed the spacing between an American Airlines
BAC-400 and a National 727 to become les-, than it should be; he was
ready to transmit

quick instructions if the closure became critical. George Wallace spotted
the condition at once, and warned Keith, who corrected it.
That kind of firsthand exercise was the only sure way the ability of a new
controller could be gauged. Similarly, when a trainee was at the scope
himself, and got into difficulties, he had to be given the chance to show
resourcefulness and sort the situation out unaided. At such moments, the
instructing controller was obliged to sit back, with clenched hands, and
sweat. Someone had once described it as, "hanging on a brick wall by your
fingernails." When to intervene or take over was a critical decision, not
to be made too early or too late. If the instructor did take over, the
trainee's confidence might be permanently undermined, and a potentially
good controller lost. On the other hand, if an instructor failed to take
over when he should, a ghastly mid-air collision could result.
The risks involved, and extra mental pressures, were such that many
controllers refused to take them. They pointed out that the task of
teaching their work to others carried neither official recognition nor
extra pay. Moreover, if anything went wrong, the instructing controller was
wholly responsible. Why suffer so much strain and liability for nothing?
Keith, however, had shown an aptitude as an instructor as well as patience
in bringing trainees along. And although he, too, suffered and sweated at
times, he did the job because he felt he should. At this moment, he took a
personal pride in the way George Wallace had developed.
Wallace said quietly again, "I'd turn United 284 right until you get
altitude separation with Mohawk."
Keith nodded agreement as he thumbed his microphone button. "United Flight
284, from Washington center. Turn right, heading zero six zero."
Promptly the reply crackled back. "Washington control, this is United 284.
Roger; zero six zero." Miles distant, and high above in clear bright
sunshine while passengers dozed or read, the powerful sleek jet would be
easing intoL a smooth controlled turn. On the radar-

scope, the bright green half inch wide blip which was United 284 began
moving in a new direction.
Below the control area, in a room devoted to rack upon rack of
ponderously turning tape recorders, the exchange between ground and air
had been recordedfor playback later if need arose. Every such conversa-
tion, from each position in the control room, was recorded and stored.
Periodically, some of the tapes were replayed and listened to critically
by supervisors. If a procedure was wrong, a controller heard about it;
yet no controller knew when a recording of his own might be selected for
analysis. On a door of the tape-recorder room was the grimly humorous
reminder, "Big Brother Is Listening."
The morning progressed.
Periodically, Perry Yount appeared. He was still overseeing two positions
and stayed long enough to assess the current traffic situation. What he
saw seemed to satisfy him, and he spent less time behind Keith than at
the other position, where several problems seemed to be occurring. Around
mid-morning the air traffic volume eased slightly; it would pick up again
before midday. Soon after 10:30 A.m. Keith Bakersfeld and George Wallace
exchanged positions. The trainee was now at the scope, Keith checking
from alongside. There was no need, Keith found, for intervention; young
Wallace was proving competent and alert. As far as was possible in the
circumstances, Keith relaxed.
At ten to eleven, Keith was aware of a need to visit the toilet. In
recent months, he had had several bouts with intestinal flu; he had a
suspicion that this was the beginning of another. He signaled Perry Yount
and told him.
The supervisor nodded. "Is George doing okay?"
"Like a veteran." Keith said it loud enough so George could hear.
"I'll hold things down," Perry said. "You're relieved, Keith."
"Thanks."
Keith signed the sector log sheet and noted his time of checking out.
Perry scribbled an initial on the next

line of the log, accepting responsibility for monitoring Wallace. In a few
minutes time, when Keith returned, they would follow the same procedure.
As Keith Bakersfeld left the control room, the supervisor was studying the
scope, his han.d lightly on George Wallace's shoulder.
The washroom Keith had gone to was on an upper level; a frosted-glass
window admitted some of the brightness of the day outside. When Keith had
finished, and freshened himself with a wash, he went to the window and
opened it. He wondered if the weather was still as superb as when he had
arrived earlier. It was.
From the rear of the building into which the window was set, he could
see-beyond a service area-green meadows, trees, and wild flowers. The heat
was greater now. All around was a drowsy hum of insects.
Keith stood looking out, aware of a reluctance to leave the cheerful
sunlight and return to the control room's gloom. It occurred to him that
lately he had had similar feelings at other times-too many times, perhaps;
and he thought-if he was honest, it was not the gloom he minded so much,
but the mental pressures. There was a time when the tensions and pressures
of his job, unrelenting as they were, had never bothered him. Nowadays they
did, and on occasions he had to force himself, consciously, to meet them.

While Keith Bakersfeld was standing at the window, thinking, a Northwest
Orient 727 jet, en route from Minneapolis-St. Paul, was nearing Washington,
D.C. Within its cabin a stewardess was bending over an elderly male
passenger. His face was ashen; he seemed unable to speak. The stewardess
believed he had had, or was having, a heart attack. She hurried to the
flight deck to inform the captain. Moments later, acting on the captain's
orders, the Northwest first officer asked Washington Air Route Center for
special clearance down, with priority handling to Washington National
Airport.

Keith wondered sometimes-as he was wondering now-how many more years he
could force his occa-

sionally weary mind to go on. He had been a controller for a decade and
a half. He was thirty-eight.
The depressing thing was-in this business you could be mentally drained,
an old man, at age forty-five or fifty, yet honorable retirement was
another ten or fifteen years away. For many air traffic controllers,
those final years proved an all-too-grueling trail, whose end they failed
to reach.
Keith knew-as most controllers did-that strains on the human systems of
those employed in air traffic control had long been recognized. Official
flight surgeons' files bulged with medical evidence. Case histories,
directly attributable to controllers' work, included hypertension, heart
attacks, gastric ulcers, tachycardia, psychiatric breakdowns, plus a host
of lesser ailments. Eminent, independent medics, in scholarly research
studies, had confirmed such findings. In the words of one: "A controller
will spend nervous, sleepless hours every night wondering how in the name
of heaven he kept all those planes from running into each other. He
managed not to cause a disaster today, but will he have the same luck
tomorrow? After a while, something inside him-physical, mental,
oftentimes both-inevitably breaks down."
Armed with this knowledge, and more, the Federal Aviation Agency had
urged Congress to allow air traffic controllers to retire at age fifty,
or after twenty years of service. The twenty years, doctors declared,
were equal to forty in most other jobs. The FAA warned legislators:
public safety was involved; controllers, after more than twenty years of
service, were potentially unsafe. Congress, Keith remembered, had ignored
the warning and refused to act.
Subsequently, a Presidential Commission also turned thumbs down on early
retirement for controllers, and the FAA-then a presidential agency-had
been told to cease and desist in its argument. Now, officially, it had.
Privately, however-as Keith and others knew-Washington FAA officials were
as convinced as ever; they predicted that the question would arise again,
though

only after an air disaster, or a series, involving wom-out controllers,
followed by press and public furor.
Keith's thoughts switched back to the countryside. It was glorious today;
the fields inviting, even when viewed from a washroom window. He wished he
could go out there and sleep in the sun. Well, he couldn't, and that was
that. He supposed he had better get back to the control room. He would-in
just a moment more.

The Northwest Orient 727 had already started down, on authority from
Washington Center. At lower altitudes, other flights were being hurriedly
diverted, or ordered to orbit, safe distances away. A slanting hole,
through which Northwest would continue descending, was being cleared in the
growing midday traffic. Approach control at Washington National Airport had
been alerted; its function would come shortly when it accepted the
Northwest jet from Washington Center. At this moment, responsibility for
the Northwest flight and other aircraft devolved on the sector team next to
Keith's-the extra sector which the young Negro, Perry Yount, was
supervising.
Fifteen aircraft with combined speeds totaling seven thousand five hundred
miles per hour were being juggled in an airspace a few miles wide. No
airplane must come near another. The Northwest flight must be brought down,
safely, through them all.
Similar situations happened several times a day; in bad weather it could be
several times an hour. Sometimes emergencies came together, so that
controllers numbered them-emergency one, emergency two, emergency three.
In the present situation, as always, Perry Yountquiet-spoken, cool, and
capable-was responding with experienced skill. Working with others in the
sector team, he was coordinating emergency procedurescalmly, level voiced,
so that from his tone no bystander listening would be aware that an
emergency existed. Other aircraft could not hear transmissions to the
Northwest flight, which had been instructed to switch to a separate radio
frequency.

Everything was going well. The Northwest flight was steady on course,
descending. In a few minutes, the emergency situation would be over.
Amid the pressures, Perry Yount even found time to slip across to the
adjoining position-which normally would have his undivided attention-to
check George Wallace. Everything looked good, though Perry knew he would be
easier in mind when Keith Bakersfeld was back. He glanced toward the
control room door. No sign of Keith yet.

Keith-still at the open window, still looking out at the Virginia
countryside-was remembering Natalie. He sighed. Lately, there had been
disagreements between them, triggered by his work. There were points of
view which his wife could or would not see. Natalie was concerned about
Keith's health. She wanted him to give up air traffic control; to quit, and
choose some other occupation while some of his youth and most of his health
remained. It had been a mistake, he realized now, to confide his doubts to
Natalie, to describe what he had seen happen to other controllers whose
work had made them prematurely old and ailing. Natalie had become alarmed,
perhaps with reason. But there were considerations to giving up a job,
walking away from years of training and experience; considerations which it
was hard for Natalie-or for any woman, he supposed-to grasp.

Over Martinsburg, West Virginia-some thirty miles northwest of Washington
Route Center-a private, four-place Beech Bonanza, at seven thousand feet,
was leaving Airway V166 and entering Airway V44. The little Beech Bonanza,
identifiable visually by its butterfly tail, was cruising at 175 mph , its
destination Baltimore. It contained the Redfern family: Irving Redfern, a
consulting engineer-economist, his wife Merry, and their two
children-Jeremy, ten years old, and Valerie, nine.
Irving Redfern was a careful, thorough man. Today, because of favorable
weather conditions, he could have flown using visual flight rules. However,
he considered it

more prudent to file an instrument flight plan and, since leaving his home
airport of Charleston, West Virginia, had stayed on airways, remaining in
touch with air traffic control. A few moments earlier, Washington Route
Center had given him a new course on Airway V44. He had alreadv turned on it
and now his magnetic compass, which had been swinging slightly, was settling
down nicely.
The Reelferns were going to Baltimore partly for Irving Redfern's business,
and partly for pleasure, which would include a family theatre outing
tonight. While their father was concentrating on his flying, the children,
with Merry, were chattering about what they would have for lunch at
Friendship Airport.
The Washington Center controller who had given Irving Redfern his latest
instructions was George Wallace, the almost-qualified trainee still filling
in for Keith Bakersfeld. George had correctly identified the Redferns'
Beechcraft on his radarscope, where it appeared as a bright green dot,
though smaller and moving more slowly than most other traffic-at the
moment principally airline jets. There was nothing closing up on the
Beechcraft, however, which appeared to have plenty of airspace all around
it. Perry Yount, the sector supervisor, had by now returned to the
adjoining position. He was helping sort out the aftermath confusion now
that the critical Northwest Orient 727 had been handed over safely to
Washington National Airport approach control. Periodically, Perry glanced
across at George and once called out, "Is everything okay?" George Wallace
nodded, though he was beginning to sweat a little. Today's heavier noontime
traffic seemed to be building up earlier than usual.
Unknown to George Wallace or Perry Yount or Irving Redfern, an Air National
Guard T-33 jet trainer was flying-at the moment idly in circles-a few
miles north of Airway V44. The T-33 was from Martin Airport, near
Baltimore, and its National Guard pilot was an automobile salesman named
Hank Neel.
Lieutenant Neel, who was fulfilling his part-time military training
requirements, had been sent up solo for

YFR proficiency flying. Because he had been cautioned to do only local
flying in an authorized area northwest of Baltimore, no flight plan had been
filed,– therefore, Washington Air Route Center had no knowledge that the
T-33 was in the air. This would not have mattered except that Neel had
become bored with his assignment and was also a careless pilot. Looking out
casually, as he held the jet trainer in lazy circles, he realized he had
drifted south while practicing maneuvers, though in reality he had come a
good deal farther than he imagined. He was so far south that several minutes
ago the National Guard jet had entered George Wallace's radar control area
and now appeared on Wallace's screen at Leesburg as a green dot, slightly
larger than the Redfern family's Beech Bonanza. A more experienced
controller would have recognized the dot instantly for what it was. George,
however, still busy with other traffic, had not yet observed the extra,
unidentified signal.
Lieutenant Neel, at fifteen thousand feet, decided he would finish his
flying practice with some aerobaticstwo loops, a couple of slow rolls-and
then return to base. He swung the T-33 into a steep turn and circled again
while he took the standard precaution of looking for other airplanes above
and below. He was now even closer than before to Airway V44.

The thing his wife failed to realize, Keith Bakersfeld thought, was that a
man couldn't just quit his job irresponsibly, on a whim, even if he wanted
to. Especially when the man had a family to support, children to educate.
Especially when the job you possessed, the skills you so patiently
acquired, had fitted you for nothing else. In some branches of government
service, employees could leave and utilize their proficiency elsewhere. Air
Traffic controllers could not. Their work had no counterpart in private
industry; no one else wanted them.
Being trapped that way-which was what it amounted to, Keith recognized-was
a disillusion which came with other disillusions. Money was one. When you
were young, enthusiastic, wanting to be a part of avia-

tion, the civil service pay scale of an air traffic controller seemed
adequate or better. Only later did it become clear how inadequate-in
relation to the job's awesome responsibility-that pay scale was. The two
most skillful specialists involved in air traffic nowadays were pilots and
controllers. Yet pilots earned thirty thousand dollars a year while a senior
controller reached his ceiling at ten thousand. No one believed pilots
should earn less. But even pilots, who were notoriously selfish in taking
care of themselves, believed air traffic controllers should earn more.
Nor was promotion-as in most other occupationssomething an air traffic
controller could look forward to. Senior supervisory posts were few; only
a fortunate handful ever attained them.
And yet . . . unless you were reckless or uncaringwhich controllers, by the
nature of their work, were not –there was no way out. So there would be no
quitting for himself, Keith decided. He must have another talk with
Natalie; it was time she accepted that for better or worse, it was too late
for change. He had no intention, at this stage, of scratching inadequately
for some other kind of living.
He really must go back. Glancing at his watch, he realized guiltily that it
was almost fifteen minutes since he left the control room. For part of the
time he had been daydreaming-something he rarely did, and it was obviously
the somniferous effect of the summer's day. Keith closed the washroom
window. From the corridor outside, he hurried downward to the main control
room.

High over Frederick County, Maryland, Lieutenant Neel straightened up his
National Guard T-33 and eased on forward trim. Neel had completed his some-
what casual inspection and had seen no other aircraft. Now, beginning his
first loop and slow roll, he put the jet trainer into a steep dive.

Entering the control room, Keith Bakersfeld was aware at once of an
increased tempo. The hum of voices was louder than when he left. Other
controllers were too

preoccupied to glance up-as they had done earlier this morning-as he
passed by them on the way to his own position. Keith scribbled a signature
in the sector log and noted the time, then moved behind George Wallace,
getting the picture, letting his eyes adjust to the control room
semidarkness, in sharp contrast to the bright sunlight outside. George had
murmured "Hi!" as Keith returned, then continued transmitting radio
instructions to traffic. In a moment or two, when Keith had the picture,
he would relieve George and slip into his seat. It had probably been good
for George, Keith reasoned, to be on his own for a while; it would improve
his confidence. From the adjoining sector console, Perry Yount had noted
Keith's return.
Keith studied the radarscope and its moving pinpoints of light-the
aircraft "targets" which George had identified, then noted on small
movable markers on the screen. A bright green dot without identification
caught Keith's eye. He asked George sharply, "What's the other traffic
near the Beech Bonanza 403?"

Lieutenant Neel had finished his first loop and slow roll. He had climbed
back to fifteen thousand feet, and was still over Frederick County,
though a little farther south. He leveled the T-33 jet, then put the nose
down sharply and began a dive into a second loop.

"What other traffic . . . T' George Wallace's eyes followed Keith's
across the radarscope. He gasped; then in a strangled voice-"My God!"
With a swift, single movement, Keith ripped the radio headset from George
and shouldered him aside. Keith flung a frequency switch open, snapped
a transmit button down. "Beech Bonanza NC-403, this is Washington Center.
There is unidentified traffic to your left. Make an immediate right turn
now!"

The National Guard T-33 was at the bottom of its dive. Lieutenant Neel
pulled the control column back and, with full power on, began a fast,
steep climb. Immediately above was the tiny Beech Bonanza, con-

taining Irving Redfern and his family, cruising steadily on Airway V44.

In the control room … breathlessly … silently … praying hard … they
watched the closing, bright green dots.
The radio crackled with a burst of static. "Washington Center, this is
Beech Abruptly the transmission stopped.

Irving Redfern was a consulting engineer-economist. He was a competent
amateur pilot, but not a commercial one.
An airline pilot, receiving the Washington Center message, would have flung
his aircraft instantly into a steep right turn. He would have caught the
urgency in Keith's voice, would have acted, without waiting to trim, or
acknowledge, or-until later-question. An airline pilot would have ignored
all minor consequences except the overriding urgency of escaping the nearby
peril which the route center message unmistakably implied. Behind him, in
the passenger cabin, scalding cobFee might have spilled, meals scattered,
even minor injuries resulted. Later there would have been complaints, apol-
ogies, denunciations, perhaps a Civil Aeronautics Board inquiry. But-with
ordinary luck-there could have been survival. Quick action could have
insured it. It would have insured it for the Redfern family, too.
Airline pilots were conditioned by training and usage, to swift, sure
reflexes. Irving Redfern was not. He was a precise, scholarly man,
accustomed to think before acting, and to following correct procedures. His
first thought was to acknowledge the Washington Center message. Thus, he
used up two or three seconds-all the time he had. The National Guard T-33,
swooping upward from the bottom of its loop, struck the Redferns' Beech
Bonanza on the left side, slicing off the private aircraft's port wing with
a single screeching rip of metal. The T-33, mortally damaged itself,
continued upward briefly while its forward section disintegrated. Scarcely
knowing what was happening-he had caught

only the briefest glimpse of the other plane-Lieutenant Neel ejected and
waited for his parachute to open. Far below, out of control and spinning
crazily, the Beechcraft Bonanza, with the Redfern family still inside, was
plummeting to earth.

Keith's hands were trembling as he tried again. "Beech Bonanza NC-403, this
is Washington Center. Do you read?"
Beside Keith, George Wallace's lips moved silently. His face was drained of
color.
As they watched in horror, the dots on the radarscope converged, blossomed
suddenly, then faded.
Perry Yount, aware of something wrong, bad joined them. "What is it?"
Keith's mouth was dry. "I think we've had a mid-air."
It was then it happened: the nightmarish sound which those who heard it
wished that they had not, yet afterward would not be able to erase from
memory.

In the pilot's seat of the doomed, spinning Beech Bonanza, Irving
Redfern-perhaps involuntarily, perhaps as a last despairing act-pressed the
transmit button of his microphone and held it down. The radio still worked.

At Washington Center, the transmission was heard on a console speaker which
Keith had switched in when his emergency transmissions began. At first
there was a burst of static, then immediately a succession of piercing,
frantic, chilling screams. Elsewhere in the control room, heads turned.
Faces nearby paled. George Wallace was sobbing hysterically. Senior
supervisors came hurrying from other sections.
Suddenly, above the screaming clearly, a single voice –terrified, forlorn,
beseeching. At first, not every word was audible. Only later, when the tape
recording of the last transmission was played and replayed many times, were
the full words put together, the voice identified as that of Valerie
Redfern, nine years old.
". . . Mummy! Daddy! . . . Do something! I don't

want to die … Oh, Gentle Jesus, I've been good . . . Please, I don't want.
. ."
Mercifully, the transmission stopped.
The Beech Bonanza crashed and burned near the village of Lisbon, Maryland.
What remained from the four bodies was unrecognizable and was buried in a
common grave.
Lieutenant Neel landed safely by parachute, five miles away.

AH three controllers involved in the tragedy-George Wallace, Keith
Bakersfeld, Perry Yount-were at once suspended from duty, pending
investigation.
Later, the trainee, George Wallace, was held technically not to blame,
since he was not a qualified controller when the accident occurred. He was,
however, dismissed from government service and barred forever for further
employment in air traffic control.
The young Negro supervisor, Perry Yount, was held wholly responsible. The
investigating board-taking days and weeks to play back tapes, examine
evidence, and review decisions which Yount himself bad had to make in
seconds, under pressure-decided be should have spent less time on the
emergency involving the Northwest Orient 727 and more in supervising George
Wallace during the absence of Keith Bakersfeld. The fact that Perry Yount
was doing double duty-which, had he been less cooperative, he could have
refusedwas ruled not relevant. Yount was officially reprimanded, and
reduced in civil service grade.
Keith Bakersfeld was totally exonerated. The investigating board was at
pains to point out that Keith had requested to be temporarily relieved from
duty, that his request was reasonable, and he followed regulations in
signing out and in. Furthermore, immediately on return, he perceived the
possibility of a mid-air collision and tried to prevent it. For his quick
thinking and actionthough the attempt was unsuccessful-he was commended by
the board.
The question of the length of Keith's absence from the control room did not
arise initially. Near the end of
'

the investigation-perceiving the way things were going for Perry Yount-Keith
attempted to raise it himself, and to accept the major share of blame. His
attempt was treated kindly, but it was clear that the investigating board
regarded it as a chivalrous gesture-and no more. Keith's testimony, once its
direction became clear, was cut off summarily. His attempted intervention
was not referred to in the board's final report.
An independent Air National Guard inquiry produced evidence that Lieutenant
Henry Neel had been guilty of contributory negligence in failing to remain
in the vicinity of Middletown Air Base, and for allowing his T-33 to drift
near Airway V44. However, since his actual position could not be proved
conclusively, no charges were preferred. The lieutenant went on selling
automobiles, and flying during weekends.
On learning of the investigating board's decision, the supervisor, Perry
Yount, suffered a nervous collapse. He was hospitalized and placed under
psychiatric care. He appeared to be moving toward recovery when he received
by mail, from an anonymous source, a printed bulletin of a California
rightwing group opposing among other things-Negro civil rights. The bulletin
contained a viciously biased account of the Redfern tragedy. It portrayed
Perry Yount as an incompetent, bumbling dullard, indifferent to his
responsibilities, and uncaring about the Redfern family's death. The entire
incident, the bulletin argued, should be a warning to "bleeding heart
liberals" who aided Negroes in attaining responsible positions for which
they were not mentally equipped. A "housecleaning" was urged of other
Negroes employed in air traffic control, "before the same thing happens
again."
At any other time, a man of Perry Yount's intelligence would have dismissed
the bulletin as a maniacal diatribe, which it was. But because of his
condition, he suffered a relapse after reading it, and might have remained
under treatment indefinitely if a government review board had not refused
to pay hospital bills for his care, maintaining that his mental illness had
not been caused through government employment. Yount was

discharged from the hospital but did not return to air traffic control.
When Keith Bakersfeld last heard of him, he was working in a Baltimore
waterfront bar, and drinking heavily.
George Wallace disappeared from sight. There were rumors that the former
trainee controller had re-crilisted –in the U. S. Army Infantry, not the
Air Force-and was now in serious trouble with the Military Police.
According to stories, Wallace repeatedly started fist fights and brawls
in which he appeared to go out of his way to bring physical punishment
on himself. The rumors were not confirmed.
For Keith Bakersfeld, it seemed for a while as if life would go on as
usual. When the investigation ended, his temporary suspension was lifted;
his qualifications and government service rating remained intact. He
returned to wor~ at Leesburg. Colleagues, aware that Keith's experience
could easily have been their own, were friendly and sympathetic. His
work, at first, went well enough.
After his abortive attempt to raise the subject before the investigating
board, Keith confided to no one-not even to Natalie-the fact of his
washroom loitering that fateful day. Yet the secret knowledge was seldom
far from the forefront of his mind.
At home, Natalie was understanding and, as always, loving. She sensed
that Keith had undergone a traumatic shock from which he would need time
to recover, and she attempted to meet his moods-to talk or be animated
when he felt like it, to stay silent when he did not. In quiet, private
sessions Natalie explained to the boys, Brian and Theo, why they, too,
should show consideration for their father.
In an abstracted way, Keith understood and appreciated what Natalie was
trying to do. Her method might eventually have succeeded, except for one
thing-an air traffic controller needed sleep. Keith was getting little
sleep and, some nights, none.
On the occasions he did sleep, he had a persistent dream in which the
scene in the Washington Center control roorn, moments before the mid-air
collision, was

re-created the merging pinpoints of light on the radarscope Keith's last
desperate message . . . the screams; the voice oflittle Valerie Redfern
…
Sometimes the dream had variations. When Keith tried to move toward the
radarscope to seize George Wallace's radio headset and transmit a
warning, Keith's limbs resisted, and would change position only with
frustrating slowness, as if the air surrounding them were heavy sludge.
His mind warned frantically: If he could only move freely, the tragedy
could be averted. . . . Although his body strained and fought, be always
reached his goal too late. At other times he attained the headset, but
his voice would fail. He knew that if he could articulate words, a
warning would suffice, the situation could be saved. His mind would race,
his lungs and larynx strain, but no sound came.
But evert with variations, the dream always ended the same way-with the
Beech Bonanza's last radio transmission as he heard it so many times
during the inquiry, on the played-back tape. And afterward, with Natalie
asleep beside him, he would lie awake, thinking, remembering, longing for
the impossible-to change the shape of things past. Later still, he would
resist sleep, fighting for wakefulness, so he would not endure the
torture of the dream again.
It was then that in the loneliness of night, his conscience would remind
him of the stolen, wasted minutes in the route center washroom; crucial
minutes when he could have returned to duty, and should have done, but
through idleness and self-concern had failed to do so. Keith knew-as
others did not-that the real responsibility for the Redfern tragedy was
his own, not Perry Yount's. Perry had been a circumstantial sacrifice,
a technical victim. Perry had been Keith's friend, had trusted Keith that
day to be conscientious, to come back to the control room as quickly as
he could. Yet Keith, though knowing his friend was standing double duty,
aware of the extra pressures on him, had been twice as long as he needed
to be, and had let Perry down; so in the end, Perry Yount stood accused
and convicted in Keith's place.

Perry for Keith-a sacrificial goat.
But Perry, though grievously wronged, was still alive. The Redfern family
was dead. Dead because Keith doodled mentally, dallying in the sunshine,
leaving a semiexperienced trainee too long with res ' ponsibilities which
were rightly Keith's, and for which Keith was better qualified. There
could be no question that had he returned sooner, he would have spotted
the intruding T33 long before it neared the Redferns' plane. The proof
was that he had spotted it when he did return-too late to be of use.
Around and around … over and over in the night … as if committed to
a treadmill … Keith's mind labored on, self-torturing, sick with grief,
recrimination. Eventually he would sleep from exhaustion, usually to
dream, and to awake again.
In daytime, as well as night, the memory of the Redferns persisted.
Irving Redfern, his wife, their children –though Keith had never known
them-haunted him. ne presence of Keith's own children, Brian and Theo