Airport

away from the first class compartment, where passengers could be
identified easily, and unless the flight was full, detection was
unlikely. It was true that stewardesses would count heads, and their
tally might disagree with the gate agent's manifest. At that point a
stowaway would be suspected, but the agent in charge would be faced with
two choices. Either be could let the airplane go, recording on the
manifest that the head and ticket counts did not agree, or a recheck
could be made of the tickets of everyone aboard.
A recheck, if decided on, would take most of half an hour; meanwhile, the
cost of holding a six-million-dollar jet airplane on the ground would
soar. Schedules, both at origin and down tile line, would be disrupted.
Passengers with connections to make, or appointments, would

grow angrily impatient, while the captain, conscious of his punctuality

record, would fume at the agent. The agent would~ reason that he might
have made a mistake anyway; moreover, unless he could show good reason for
a delay, he would get a roasting later on from his District Transportation
Manager. In the end, even if a stowaway was found, the loss in dollars and
goodwill would far exceed the cost of providing a free ride for a single
individual.
So what happened was that the airline did the only sensible thing-it
closed the doors, and sent the airplane on its way.
That was usually the end of it. Once in flight, stewardesses were too
busy to do a ticket check, and passengers would certainly not submit to
the delay and annoyance of one at journey's end. Therefore the stowaway
walked off, unquestioned and unhindered.
What the little old lady had told Tanya about returning was just as
accurate. Airlines took the view that stowaway incidents should not
happen and, when they did, it was their own fault for failing to prevent
them. On the same basis, airlines accepted responsibility for insuring
that stowaways were returned to their point of origin and-since there
was no other way to convey them-offenders went back in regular seats,
getting normal service, including airline meals.
"You're qice, too," Mrs. Ouonsett said. "I can always tell nice people
when I meet them. But you're a lot younger than the others in the
airline-those I get to meet, I mean."
"You mean the ones who deal with cheats and stowaways."
"That's fight." The little old lady seemed unabashed. Her eyes moved
appraisingly. "I should say you're twenty-eight."
Tanya said shortly, "Thirty-seven."
"Well, you have a young mature look. Perhaps it comes from being
married."
"Come off it," Tanya said. "That isn't going to help you.,,
"But you are married."

"I was. I'm not now."

"Such a pity. You could have beautiful children. With red hair like your
own."
Red hair, perhaps, but not with the beginnings of gray, Tanya thought-the
gray she had noticed again this morning. As to children, she might have
explained that she did have a child, who was at home in their apartment
and, she hoped, asleep. Instead, she addressed Mrs. Ada Quonsett sternly.
"What you've done is dishonest. You've defrauded; you've broken the law.
I suppose you realize you can be prosecuted."
For the first time, a gleam of triumph crossed the older woman's innocent
face. "But I won't be, will I? They never do prosecute anybody."
There was really no point in continuing, Tanya thought. She knew
perfectly well, and so apparently did Mrs. Quonsett, that airlines never
prosecuted stowaways, on the theory that publicity would be more harmful
than otherwise.
There was just a chance, though, that some more questions might produce
information useful in the future.
"Mrs. Quonsett," Tanya said, "since you've had so much free travel from
Trans America, the least you can do is help us a tittle."
"I'll be glad to if I can."
"What I'd like to know is how you get aboard our flights. "
The little old lady smiled. "Well, my dear, there are quite a few ways.
I try to use different ones as much as I can."
"Please tell me about them."
"Well, most times I try to be at the airport early enough so I can get
myself a boarding pass."
"Isn't that difficult to do?"
"Getting a boarding pass? Oh, no; it's very easy. Nowadays airlines use
their ticket folders as passes. So I go to one of the counters and say
I've lost my ticket folder, and please may I have another. I pick a
counter where

the clerks are busy, with a lot of people waiting. They always give me

one."
Naturally they would, Tanya thought. It was a normal request which
occurred frequently. Except that, unlike Mrs. Quonsett, most people
wanted a fresh ticket folder for a legitimate reason.
"But it's just a blank folder," Tanya pointed out. "It isn't made out as
a gate pass."
"I make it out myself-in the ladies' room. I always have some old passes
with me, so I know what to write. And I keep a big black pencil in my
purse." Depositing the lace handkerchief in her lap, Mrs. Quonsett opened
her black beaded purse. "See?"
"I do see," Tanya said. She reached out, removing the crayon pencil. "Do
you mind if I keep this?"
Mrs. Quonsett looked faintly resentful. "It's really mine. But if you
want it, I suppose I can get another."
"Go on," Tanya said. "So now you have a boarding pass. What happens after
that?"
"I go to where the flight is leaving from."
"The departure gate?"
"That's right. I wait until the young man checking the tickets is busy-be
always is when a lot of people come together. Then I walk past him, and
on to the airplane."
"Suppose someone tries to stop you?"
"No one does, if I have a pass."
"Not even the stewardesses?"
"They're just young girls, my dear. Usually they're talking to each
other, or interested in the men. All they look at is the flight number,
and I always get that right.'
"But you said you don't always use a boarding pass.'
Mrs. Quonsett blushed. "Then, I'm afraid, I have to tell a little white
lie. Sometimes I say I'm going aboard to see my daughter off-most
airlines let people do that, you know. Or, if the plane has come in from
somewhere else, I say I'm going back to my seat, but I left my ticket on
board. Or, I tell them my son just got on, but he dropped his wallet and
I want to give it to him. I carry a wallet in my hand, and that works
best of all."
"Yes," Tanya said, "I imagine it would. You seem to have thought
everything out very carefully." She had

plenty of material, she mused, for a bulletin to all gate agents and

stewardesses. She doubted, though, if it would have much effect.
"My late husband taught me to be thorough. He was a teacher-of geometry.
He always said you should try to think of every angle."
Tanya looked hard at Mrs. Quonsett. Was her leg being gently pulled?
The face of the little old lady from San Diego remained impassive.
"There's one important thing I haven't mentioned."
On the opposite side of the room a telephone rang. Tanya got up to answer
it.
"Is that old biddy still with you?" The voice was the District
Transportation Manager's. The D.T.M. was responsible for all phases of
Trans America operations at Lincoln International. Usually a calm,
good-natured boss, tonight he sounded irascible. Clearly, three days and
nights of flight delays, rerouting unhappy passengers, and endless
needlings from the airline's Eastern head office were having their
effect.
"Yes," Tanya said.
"Get anything useful out of her?"
"Quite a lot. I'll send you a report."
"When you do, use some goddarn capitals for once, so I can read it."
"Yes, sir."
She made the "sir" sufficiently pointed, so there was a momentary silence
at the other end. Then the D.T.M. grunted. "Sorry, Tanya! I guess I'm
passing on to you what I've been getting from New York. Like the cabin
boy kicking the ship's cat, only you're no cat. Can I do anything?"
"I'd like a one-way passage to Los Angeles, tonight, for Mrs. Ada
Quonsett."
"Is that the old hen?"
"The same."
The D.T.M. said sourly, "I suppose, a company charge."
"I'm afraid so."
"What I hate about it is putting her ahead of honest-

to-goodness fare-paying passengers who've been waiting hours already. But

I guess you're right; we're better off to get her out of our hair."
"I think so."
"I'll okay a requisition. You can pick it up at the ticket counter. But
be sure to alert Los Angeles, so they can have the airport police escort
the old hag off the premises."
Tanya said softly, "She could be Whistler's Mother."
The D.T.M. grunted. "Then let Whistler buy her a ticket."
Tanya smiled and hung up. She returned to Mrs. Quonsett.
"You said there was an important thing-about getting aboard flights-that
you hadn't told me."
The little old lady hesitated. Her mouth had tightened noticeably at the
mention, during Tanya's conversation, of a return flight to Los Angeles.
"You've told me most of it," Tanya prompted. "You might as well finish.
If there's anything else."
"There certainly is." Mrs. Quonsett gave a tight, prim nod. "I was going
to say it's best not to choose the big flights-the important ones, I
mean, that go non-stop across the country. They often get full, and they
give people seat numbers, even in Economy. That makes it harder, though
I did it once when I could see there weren't many others going."
"So you take flights that aren't direct. Don't you get found out at
intermediate stops?"
"I pretend to be asleep. Usually they don't disturb me.,,

"But this time you were."

Mrs. Quonsett pressed her lips in a thin, reproving line. "It was that
man sitting beside me. He was very mean. I confided in him, and he
betrayed me to the stewardess. That's what you get for trusting people."
"Mrs. Quonsett," Tanya said. "I imagine you heard; we're going to send
you back to Los Angeles."
There was the slightest gleam behind the elderly, gray eyes. "Yes, my
dear. I was afraid that would happen.

But I'd like to get a cup of tea. So, if I can go now, and you'll tell me

what time to come back…"
"Oh, no!" Tanya shook her head decisively. "You're not going anywhere
alone. You can have your cup of tea, but an agent will be with you. I'm
going to send for one now, and he'll stay with you until you board the
Los Angeles flight. If I let you loose in this terminal I know exactly
what would happen. You'd be on an airplane for New York before anybody
knew it."
From the momentary hostile glare which Mrs. Ouonsett gave her, Tanya knew
she had guessed right.
Ten minutes later, all arrangements were complete. A single seat
reservation bad been made on Flight 103 for Los Angeles, leaving in an
hour and a half. The flight was nonstop; there was to be no chance of
Mrs. Quonsett getting off en route and heading back. D.T.M. Los Angeles
had been advised by teletype; a memo was going to the crew of Flight 103.
The little old lady from San Diego had been handed over to a male Trans
America agent-a recently recruited junior, young enough to be her
grandson.
Tanya's instructions to the agent, Peter Coakley, were precise. "You're
to stay with Mrs. Quonsett until flight time. She says she wants some
tea, so take her to the coffee shop and she can have it; also something
to eat if she asks, though there'll be dinner on the flight. But whatever
she has, stay with her. If she needs the ladies' room, wait outside;
otherwise, don't let her out of your sight. At flight time, take her to
the departure gate, go aboard with her and hand her over to the senior
stewardess. Make it clear that once aboard, she is not to be allowed off
the airplane for any reason. She's full of little tricks and plausible
excuses, so be careful."
Before leaving, the little old lady grasped the young agent's arm. "I
hope you don't mind, young man. Nowadays an old lady needs support, and
you do so remind me of my dear son-in-law. He was good-looking, too,
though of course lie's a lot older than you are now. Your airline does
seem to employ nice people." Mrs. Quonsett glanced reproachfully at
Tanya. "At least, most of them are."

"Remember what I said," Tanya cautioned Peter Coakley. "She's got a

barrelful of tricks."
Mrs. Quonsett said severely, "That isn't very kind. I'm sure this young
man will form his own opinion."
The agent was grftming sheepishly.
At the doorway, Mrs. Quonsett turned. She addressed Tanya. "Despite the
way you've behaved, my dear, I want you to know that I don't bear any
grudge."
A few minutes later, from the small lounge which she had used for
tonight's two interviews, Tanya returned to the Trans America executive
offices on the main mezzanine. The time, she noticed, was a quarter to
nine. At her desk in the big outer office she speculated on whether the
airline had heard the last, or not, of Mrs. Ada Quonsett. Tanya rather
doubted it. On her capitalless typewriter she began a memo to the
District Transportation Manager.

to: dtm

froni: tanya liv'stn
sbject: whistler's mum

She stopped, wondering where Mel Bakersfeld was, and if he would come.

5

He simply couldn't, Mel Bakersfeld decided, go downtown tonight.

Mel was in his office, in the mezzanine administrative suite. His fingers
drummed thoughtfully on the surface ,of his desk, from where he had been
telephoning, obtaining latest reports on the airport's operating status.
Runway three zero was still out of use, still blocked by the niired
A6reo-Mexican jet. As a result, the gen-

eral runway availability situation was now critical, and traffic

delays-both in the air and on the ground-were worsening. The possibility
of having to declare the airport closed, some time within the next few
hours, was very real.
Meanwhile, aircraft takeoffs were continuing over Meadowood, which was
a hornet's nest all its own. The airport switchboard, as well as air
traffic control's, was being swamped with bitterly complaining calls from
Meadowood householders-those who were at home. A good many others, Mel
had been informed, were at the protest meeting he had heard about earlier
this evening; and now there was a rumor-which the tower chief had passed
along a few minutes ago-that some kind of public demonstration was being
planned, to take place at the airport tonight.
Mel thought glumly: a bunch of demonstrators underfoot was all he needed.
One good thing was that the category three emergency had just been
declared concluded, the air force KC-135 which caused it, having landed
safely. But one emergency ended was no assurance another would not begin.
Mel had not forgotten the vague unease, the presentiment of danger he had
felt while on the airfield an hour ago. The feeling, impossible to define
or justify, still bothered him. Yet even without it, the other cir-
cumstances were enough to require his remaining here.
Cindy, of course-still waiting for him at her charity whingding-would
raise all bell. But she was angry, anyway, because he was going to be
late; he would have to brace himself to absorb the extra wrath as a
result of not appearing at all. He supposed he might as well get Cindy's
first salvo over with. The slip of paper with the downtown number where
he had reached his wife earlier was still in his pocket. He took it out,
and dialed.
As before, it took several minutes for Cindy to come to the telephone,
and when she did, surprisingly, there was none of the fire she had shown
during their previous conversation, only an icy chill. She listened in
silence to Mel's explanation-why it was essential he should remain at the
airport. Because of the lack of argument, which he had not expected, he
found himself flound-

ering, with labored excuses not wholly convincing to himself. He stopped

abruptly.
There was a pause before Cindy inquired coldly, "Have you ftnished?"
"Yes. 11
She sounded as if she were talking to someone distasteful and remote. "I'm
not surprised, because I didn't expect you to come. When you said you
would, I assumed as usual you were lying."
He said heatedly, "I wasn't lying, and it isn't as usual. I told you
earlier tonight, how many times I've been .
"I thought you said you'd finished."
Mel stopped. What was the use? He conceded wearily, "Go on."
"As I was trying to say when you interr-upted-also as usual. . ."
"Cindy, for God's sake!"
". . . knowing you were lying, gave me the chance to do some thinking." She
paused. "You say you're staying at the airport."
"Considering that's what this conversation is all about

"How long?"

"Until midnight; perhaps all night."
"Then I'll come out there. You can expect me."
"Listen, Cindy, it's no good. This isn't the time or place."
"Then we'll make it the time. And for what I have to say to you, any place
is good enough."
"Cindy, please be reasonable. I agree there are things we have to discuss,
but not . . ."
Mel stopped, realizing he was talking to himself. Cindy had hung up.
He replaced his own phone and sat in the silent office, meditatively. Then,
not quite knowing why, he picked up the telephone again and, for the second
time tonight, dialed home. Earlier, Roberta had answered. This time it was
Mrs. Sebastiani, their regular babysitter.
11 1 was just calling to check," Mel said. "Is everything all right? Are
the girls in bed?"
"Roberta is, Mr. Bakersfeld. Libby's just going."
"May I speak to Libby?"

"Well . . . just for a moment, if you promise to be very quick-"

"I promise."
Mrs. Sebastiani, Mel perceived, was her usual didactic sell'. When on duty
she exacted obedience, not just from children, but from entire families. He
sometimes wondered if the Sebastianis-there was a mousy husband who
appeared occasionally-ever had emotional marriage problems. He suspected
not. Mrs. Sebastiani would never permit it.
He heard the patter of Libby's feet approach the phone.
"Daddy," Libby said, "does our blood keep going round inside forever and
ever?"
Libby's questions were always intriguingly different. She opened new
subjects as if they were presents under a Christmas tree.
"Not forever, dear; nothing's forever. Just so long as you five. Your blood
has been going around for seven years, ever since your heart started
pumping."
"I can feel my heart," Libby said. "In my knee."
He was on the point of explaining that hearts were not in knees, and about
pulses and arteries and veins, then changed his mind. There was plenty of
time for all that. As long as you could feel your heart-wherever it seemed
to be-that was the important thing. Libby had an instinct for essentials;
at times he had the impression that her little hands reached up and
gathered stars of truth.
"Goodnight, Daddy."
"Goodnight, my love."
Mel was still not sure why be had called, but he felt better for having
done so.
As to Cindy, when she determined to do something she usually did it, so it
was entirely likely that she would arrive at the airport later tonight. And
perhaps she was right. There were fundamental things they had to settle,
notably whether their hollow shell of a marriage was to continue for the
children's sake, or not. At least they would have privacy here, out of
hearing of Roberta and Libby, who had overheard too many of their fights
before.

At the moment there was nothing specific for Mel to do, except be

available. He went out from his office onto the executive mezzanine,
looking down on the continued bustling activity of the main terminal
concourse.
It would not be many years, Mel reflected, before airport concourses
changed dramatically. Something would have to be done soon to revise the
present inefficient way in which people boarded airplanes and got off
them. Simply walking on and off, individually, was far too cumbersome and
slow. As each year passed, individual airplanes cost more and more
millions of dollars; at the same time, the cost of letting them stay idle
on the ground grew greater. Aircraft designers, airline planners, were
striving to arrange more flying hours, which produced revenue, and fewer
ground hours, which produced none at all.
Already plans were afoot for "people-pods"-based on American Airline-type
"igloos" now used for preloading air freight. Most other airlines had
their own variants of the igloo system.
Freight igloos were self-contained compartments, shaped to fit tightly
in a jet plane fuselage. Each igloo was pre-loaded with freight of
associated shapes and sizes, and could be lifted to fuselage level, and
stowed inside a jet, in minutes. Unlike conventional passenger planes,
the inside of a jet freighter was usually a hollow shell. Nowadays when
an all-cargo plane arrived at an airport freight terminal, igloos already
in the airplane were off-loaded, and new ones put in. With a minimum of
time and labor, an entire jet could be swiftly unloaded, reloaded, and
be ready again for takeoff.
"People-pods" would be an adaptation of the same idea, and Mel had seen
drawings of the type now contemplated. They would comprise small,
comfortable cabin sections complete with seats, which passengers would
step into at an airport check-in point. The pods would then be whisked
on conveyor lines-similar to present baggage conveyor systems-to ramp
positions. While their occupants remained seated, the people-pods would
be slid into an aircraft which might have arrived only a few minutes
earlier, but had already discharged other people-pods containing incoming
passengers.

When the pods were loaded and in place, windows in them would correspond

with windows in the aircraft fuselage. Doors at the end of each pod would
fold back so that stewardesses and passengers could pass through to other
sections. Galley compartments, complete with fresh food and fresh
stewardesses, would be inserted as separate pods.
A refinement of the system might eventually allow boarding of people-pods
downtown, or permit interline transfers by passengers without ever leaving
their seats.
A related concept was a "sky lounge" already under development in Los
Angeles. Each lounge, holding forty passengers, would be part-bus,
part-helicopter. On local routes it could travel suburban or downtown
streets under its own power, then, at a local heliport become a pod beneath
an outsize helicopter-the entire unit whisked to and from an airport.
And these things would happen, Mel Bakersfeld reflected. Or if not those
precisely, then something similar, and soon. A fascination, for those who
worked in the aviation milieu, was the speed with which fantastic dreams
came true.
A shout, abruptly, from the concourse below, broke into his thoughts.
"Hey, Bakersfeld! Hey up there!"
Mel searched with his eyes, seeking the source of the voice. Locating it
was made more difficult by the fact that fifty or so faces, their owners
curious about who was being called, had simultaneously swung up. A moment
later he identified the caller. It was Egan Jeffers, a tall, lean Negro in
light tan slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. One sinewy brown arm gestured
urgently.
"You get down here, Bakersfeld. You hear me! You got troubles."
Mel smiled. Jeffers, who held the terminal shoeshine concession, was an
airport character. With a challenging, broad grin across his homely
features, he could make the most outrageous statements and somehow get away
with it.
"I hear you, Egan Jeffers. How about you coming up instead?"

The grin widened. "Nuts to that, Bakersfeld! I'm a lessee and don't forget

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

A SHINE WHILE YOU SIGN

With Our Compliments

We're Trying Harder Still!

Beneath, at floor level, was a rotating electric shoe polisher, positioned

so that anyone standing at the counter could do what the notice said.
Mel was half amused; the other half of his mind accepted Egan Jeffers'
complaint. Half-kidding or not, Jeffers was within his rights. His
contract spelled out that no one else at the airport could shine shoes,
just as Jeffers himself could not rent cars or sell newspapers. Each
concessionaire received the same kind of protection in return for the
substantial portion of his profits which the airport appropriated for
itself.
With Egan Jeffers watching, Mel crossed to the carrental booth. He
consulted his pocket panic list-a slim booklet containing private
telephone numbers of senior airport personnel. The Avis manager was
listed. The girl behind the counter switched on an automatic smile as he
approached. Mel instructed her, "Let me use your phone."
She protested, "Sir, it's not a public .
"I'm the airport manager." Mel reached across, picked up the telephone
and dialed. Not being recognized in his own airport was a frequent
experience. Most of Mel's work kept him behind scenes, away from public
areas, so that those who worked there seldom saw him.
Listening to the ringing tone, he wished that other problems could be
settled as swiftly and simply as this one was going to be.
It took a dozen rings, then several minutes more of waiting, before the
Avis manager's voice came on the line. "Ken Kingsley here."
"I might have needed a car," Mel said. "Where were
ug"
"Playing with my kid's trains. Take my mind off automobfles-and people
who call me about them."
"Must be great to have a boy," Mel said. "I just have girls. Is your boy
mechanically minded?"
"An eight-year-old genius. Any time you need him to run that toy airport
of yours, let me know."
"Sure will, Ken." Mel winked at Egan Jeffers. "There is one thing he
might do now. He could set up a shoe-

shine machine at home. I happen to know where there's one surplus. So do

you."
There was a silence, then the Avis manager sighed. "Why is it you guys
always want to stifle a little honest sales promotion?"
"Mostly because we're mean and ornery. But we can make it stick. Remember
that contract clause?-any change in display space must have prior approval
of airport management. Then there's the one about not infringing on other
lessees' business."
"I get it," Kingsley said. "Egan Jeffers has been beefing."
"Let's say be isn't cheering."
"Okay, you win. I'll tell my people to yank the daran thing. Is there any
fat rush?"
"Not really," Mel said. "Any time in the next half hour will do."
"You bastard."
But he could hear the Avis man chuckling as he hung up.
Egan Jeffers nodded approvingly, his wide grin still in place. Mel brooded:
I'm the friendly airport fun man; I make everybody happy. He wished he
could do the same thing for himself.
"You handled that A-OK, Bakersfeld," Jeffers said. "Just stay on the ball
so it don't happen again." At a businesslike pace, still beaming, he headed
for the "up" escalator.
Mel followed more slowly. On the main concourse level, at the Trans America
counters, a milling crowd was in front of two positions marked:

Special Check-in

Flight Two-The Golden Argosy
Rome Nonstop

Nearby, Tanya Livingston was talking animatedly with a group of passengers.

She signaled Mel and, after a moment or two, came over to join lum.
"I mustn't stop; it's like a madhouse here. I thought you were going
downtown."

"My plans changed," Mel said. "For that matter, I thought you were going

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

meeting, on a Wednesday morning in the air-port board room. Ali five

commissioners were present: Mrs. Mildred Ackerman, an attractive brunette
housewife who was rumored to be a mistress of the mayor, hence her
appointment; and her four male colleagues-a university professor, who was
Board chairman, two local businessmen, and a retired union official.
The Board room was a mahogany paneled chamber, in the terminal, on the
executive mezzanine. At one end, on a raised platform, the commissioners
sat in reclining leather chairs behind a handsome elliptical-shaped table.
At a lower level was a second table, less elaborate. Here Mel Bakersfeld
presided, flanked by his department beads. Alongside was a press table and,
at the rear, a section for the public, since Board meetings were nominally
open. The public section was rarely occupied.
Today the only outsider, apart from commissioners and staff, was Captain
Vernon Demerest, smartly attired in Trans America uniform, his four gold
stripes of rank bright under the overhead lights. He sat waiting in the
public section, with books and papers spread over two other chairs beside
him. Courteously, the Board elected to hear Captain Dernerest first, ahead
of its regular business,
Demerest rose. He addressed the Board with his usual self-assurance, and
referred only occasionally to his notes. He was appearing, he explained, on
behalf of the Air Line Pilots Association, of which he was a local council
chairman. However, the views he would expound were equally his own, and
were shared by most pilots of all airlines.
The commissioners settled back in their reclining chairs to listen.
Airport insurance vending, Dernerest began, was a ridiculous, archaic
hangover from flying's early days. The very presence of insurance booths
and machines, their prominence in airport concourses, were insults to
commercial aviation, which bad a finer safety record, in relation to miles
traveled, than any other form of transportation.
In a railway station or bus depot, or on boarding an
188 AiRPORT

ocean liner, or driving his own car from a parking garage, did a departing

traveler have special insurance policies, against death and mutilation,
thrust beneath his nose with subtle sales pressure? Of course not!
Then why aviation?
Demerest aTiswered his own question. The reason, he declared, was that
insurance companies knew a rich bonanza when they saw it, "and never mind
the consequences."
Commercial aviation was still sufficiently new so that many people thought
of traveling by air as hazardous, despite the provable fact that an
individual was safer in a commercial airliner than in his own home. This
inherent mistrust of flying was magnified on the exceedingly rare occasions
when an airline accident occurred. The impact was dramatic, and obscured
the fact that far more deaths and injuries occurred in other, more accepted
ways.
The truth about the safety of flying, Demerest pointed out, was attested by
insurance companies themselves. Airline pilots, whose exposure to air
travel was far greater than that of passengers, could buy standard life
insurance at regular rates and, through their own group plans, at even
lower rates than the general populace.
Yet other insurance companies, abetted by greedy airport managements, and
with the docile acquiescence of airlines, continued to batten on the fears
and gullibility of air travelers.
Listening, at the staff table, Mel conceded mentally that his
brother-in-law was making a lucid presentation, though the reference to
"greedy airport managements" had been unwise. The remark had produced
frowns from several of the five commissioners, including Mrs. Ackerman.
Vernon Demerest seemed not to notice. "Now, madam and gentlemen, we come to
the most significant, the vital point."
This, he declared, was the very real danger, to every air passenger and to
all flying crews, created by irresponsible, casual sales of insurance
policies at airport counters, and by vendiag machines . . . "policies
prom-

ising vast sums, fortunes, in return for a mere few dollars' premium."

Demerost continued heatedly: "The system-if you choose t(, dignify a public
disservice by calling it a system . . . and most pilots don't-offers a
gilt-edged, open invitation to maniacs and criminals to engage in sabotage
and mass murder. Their objectives need be only the simplest: personal
reward for themselves or their expected beneficiaries."
"Captain!" The woman commissioner, Mrs. Ackerman, was leaning forward in
her chair. From her voice and expression, Mel guessed she was doing a slow
bum about thi~ "greedy airport managements" remark. "Captain, we're hearing
a whole lot of your opinions. Do you have any facts to back up all this?"
"Indeed I do, madam. There are many facts."
Vernon Demerest bad prepared his case thoroughly. Using charts and graphs,
he demonstrated that known in-flight disasters caused by bombings or other
acts of violence averaged one and one half per year. Motives varied, but a
consistent, prevalent cause was financial gain from flight insurance. As
well, there had been additional bombing attempts which either failed or
were prevented, and other disasters where sabotage was suspected bul. not
proved.
He named classic incidents: Canadian Pacific Airlines, 1949 and 1965;
Western Airlines, 1957; National Airlines, 1960 and a suspected sabotage in
1959; two Mexican airlines, 1952 and 1953; Venezuelan Airlines, 1960;
Continental Airlines, 1962; Pacific Air Lines, 1964; United Air Lines,
1950, 1955, and a suspected sabotage ~n 1965. In nine of the thirteen
incidents, all passengers and crew members perished.
It was true, of course, that where sabotage was exposed, any insurance
policies which had been taken out by those involved were automatically
invalidated. In short: sabotage didn't pay, and normal, informed people
were aware of this, They also knew that even after an air disastcr from
which there were no survivors, providing wieckage was located, it was
possible to tell

whether an explosion had occurred and, usually, by what means.

But it was not normal people, Demerest reminded the commissioners, who
committed bombings or savage acts of violence. It was the abnormal, the
psychopaths, the criminally insane, the conscienceless mass killers. That
kind of people were seldom well-informed, and even if they were, the
pyschopathic mind had a way of perceiving only what it wanted to, of
bending facts to suit what it was convenient to believe.
Mrs. Ackerman made an interjection again; this time her hostility to
Dernerest was unmistakable. "I'm not sure any of us, even you, Captain,
have qualifications to discuss what goes on in the mind of psychopaths."
"I wasn't discussing it," Demerest said impatiently. "In any case, that
isn't the point."
"Pardon me, you were discussing it. And I happen to think it is the point."
Vernon Demerest flushed. He was accustomed to command, not to being
questioned. His temper, never far below the surface, flashed. "Madam, are
you normally stupid or just being deliberately obtuse?"
The Board chairman rapped sharply with his gavel, and Mel Bakersfeld
resisted the urge to laugh.
Well, Mel thought, we might as well finish right now. Vernon should stick
to flying, which he was good at, and avoid diplomacy, where he had just
struck out. The chances of the Airport Board doing anything which Captain
Demerest wanted were, at this moment, minus nil-at least unless Mel helped
Demerest out. For a moment he wondered if he should. He suspected Demerest
realized he had gone too far. However, there was still time to turn what
had just happened into a joke which everyone could laugh at, including
Mildred Ackerman. Mel bad a knack for doing that kind of thing, for making
differences amenable, at the same time saving face for those on both sides.
Also, he knew he was a favorite of Millie Ackerman's; they got on well
together, and she always listened attentively to anything Mel might , say.
Then he decided: the hell with it. He doubted if his

brother-in-law would do the same thing if their situations werc reversed.

Let Vernon get out of the mess himself. I n any case, Mel was going to
have his own say in a few ruinutes' time.
"Captain Demerest," the Board chairman observed coldly, "that last remark
is uncalled for, out of order, and you A ill please withdraw it."
Demerest's features were still flushed. Momentarily be hesitated, then
nodded. "Very well, I withdraw it." He glanced at Mrs. Acker-man. "I beg
the lady's pardon. Perhaps she can understand that this is a subject
which 1, like most commercial flying crews, feel strongly about. When
thcre's something which seems to me so obvious . . ."He left the sentence
incomplete.
Mrs. Ackerman was glaring. The apology, such as it was, Mel thought, had
been handled badly. Now it was too late to smooth things over, even if
he wanted to.
One oC the other commissioners asked, "Captain, what exactly do you want
from us?"
Demerest took a pace forward. His voice became persuasive. "I'm appealing
to you for abolition of insurance machines and over-the-counter insurance
vending at this airport, and a promise that you will refuse to rent
space, ever again, for the same purpose."
"You'd. abolish insurance sales entirely?"
"At airports-yes. I may say, madam and gentlemen, that the Air Line
Pilots Association is urging other airports to do the same thing. We're
also asking Congress to take action to make airport insurance sales
illegal."
"What would be the point of doing that in the United States, when air
travel is international?"
Demer-st smileJ faintly. "This campaign is international, too."
"How international?"
"We have the active support of pilots' groups in forty-eight other
countries. Most believe that if an example were set in North America,
either by the U.S. or Canada,others would follow."
The same commissioner said skeptically, "I'd say you're all expecting
quite a lot."

"Surely," the chairman interjected, "the public is entitled to buy air

travel iniurance if they want it."
Demerest nodded agreement. "Of course. No one is saying they can't."
"Yes, you are." It was Mrs. Ackerman again.
The muscles around Demerest's mouth tightened. "Madam, anyone can get all
the travel insurance he wants. All he needs have is the elementary
foresight to make arrangements in advance-through any insurance broker or
even a travel agency." His glance took in the other commissioners.
"Nowadays a good many people carry a blanket accident policy for travel;
then they make all the trips they want, and they're insured permanently.
There are plenty of ways of doing it. As an example, the major credit card
companies-Diners, American Express, Carte Blanche-all offer permanent
travel insurance to their card holders; it can be renewed automatically
each year, and billed."
Most businessmen who traveled, Dernerest pointed out, had at least one of
the credit cards he had named, so abolition of airport insurance need
impose no hardship nor inconvenience on business people.
"And with all these blanket policies, the rates are low. I know, because I
have that kind of policy myself."
Vernon Dernerest paused, then continued, "The important thing about all
these insurance policies is that they go through channels. The applications
are handled by experienced people; a day or so elapses between an
application and the issuance of the policy. Because of this, there is a far
better chance of the psychotic, the maniac, the unbalanced individual being
noticed, his intentions questioned.
"Another thing to remember-an insane or unbalanced person is a creature of
impulse. Where flight insurance is concerned, this impulse is catered to by
the quickie, no-questions-asked policies available from airport vending
machines and at insurance counters."
"I think we all get the point you're making," the .chairman said sharply.
"You're beginning to repeat yourself, Captain."

Mrs. Ackerman nodded. "I agree. Personally, I'd like to hear what Mr.

Bakersfeld has to say."
The eyes of the commissioners swung toward Mel. He acknowledged. "Yes, I do
have some observations. But I'd prefer to wait until Captain Demerest is
completely finished."
"He's finished," Mildred Ackerman said. "We just decided."
One of the other commissioners laughed, and the chairman rapped with his
gravel. "Yes, I really think so … If you please, Mr. Bakersfeld."
As Mel rose, Vernon Demerest returned, glowering, to his seat.
"I mayas well make it clear," Mel began, "that I take the opposite point of
view to just about everything Vernon has said. I guess you could call it a
family disagreement."
The commissioners, who were aware of Mel's relationship by marriage to
Vernon Demerest, smiled, and already, Mel sensed, the tension of a few
minutes earlier had lessened. He was used to these meetings and knew that
inforniality was always the best approach. Vernon could have found that
out, too-if he had taken the trouble to inquire.
"There are several points we ought to think about," Met continued. "First,
let's face up to the fact that most people have always had an inherent fear
of flying, and I'm convinced that feeling will always exist, no matter how
much progress we make, and however much we improve our safety record.
Incidentally, the one point on which I agree with Vernon is that our safety
record is exceedingly good already."
He went on: Because of this inherent fear, many passengers felt more
comfortable, more reassured, with air trip insurance. They wanted it. They
also wanted it to be obtainable at airports, a fact proven by the enormous
volume of sales from vending machines and airport insurance booths. It was
a matter of freedom that passengers should have the right, and the
opportunity, to buy insurance or not. As for getting the insurance ahead of
time, the plain fact was that most people didn't

think of it. Besides, Mel added, if flight insurance were sold this way,

a great deal of revenue to airports-including Lincoln International-would
be lost. At the mention of airport revenue, Mel smiled. The airport
commissioners smiled with him.
That was the crux of it, of course, Mel realized. Revenue from the
insurance concessions was too important to lose. At Lincoln
International, the airport gained half a million dollars annually from
commissions on insurance sales, though few purchasers realized that the
air-port appropriated twenty-five cents from every premium dollar. Yet
insurance represented the fourth largest concession, with only parking,
restaurants, and auto rentals producing larger sums for the airport's
coffers. At other big airports, insurance revenue was similar or higher.
It was all very well, Mel reflected, for Vernon Demerest to talk about
"greedy airport managements," but that kind of money had a way of
talking, too.
Mel decided not to put his thoughts into speech. His single brief
reference to revenue was enough. The commissioners, who were familiar
with the airport's financial affairs, would get the point.
He consulted his notes. They were notes which one of the insurance
companies doing business at Lincoln International had supplied him with
yesterday. Mel bad not asked for the notes, nor had he mentioned to
anyone outside his own office that today's insurance debate was coming
up. But the insurance people had somehow learned, and it was
extraordinary how they always did –then acted promptly to protect their
interests.
Mel would not have used the notes if they had run counter to his own
honestly held opinions. Fortunately, they did not.
"Now," Mel said, "about sabotage-potential and otherwise." He was aware
of the board members listening intently.
"Vernon has talked quite a lot about that-but I must say, having listened
carefully, that most of his remarks seemed to me to be overstatements.
Actually, the

proven incidents of air disasters because of insurance-inspired bombings

have been very few."
In the spectator section, Captain Dernerest shot to his feet. "Great
God!-how many disasters do we need to have?"
The chairman rapped sharply with his gavel. "Captain … if you please!"
Mel waited until Demerest subsided, then continued calmly, "Since the
question has been asked, the answer is 'none.' A more pertinent question
is: Might not the disasters still have occurred, even if airport-purchased
insurance had not been available?"
Mel paused, to let his point sink home, before continuing.
"It can be argued, of course, that if airport insurance had not been
available, the disasters we are talking about might never have happened at
all. In other words, these were crimes of impulse, triggered by the ease
with which airport insurance can be bought. Similarly, it can be contended
that even if the crimes were contemplated in advance, they might not have
been carried through had flight insurance been less readily available.
Those, I think, are Vernon's arguments-and the ALPA's."
Mel glanced briefly at his brother-in-law who gave no sign beyond a scowl.
"The glaring weakness of all those arguments," Mel maintained, "is that
they are purely suppositional. It seems to me just as likely that someone
planning such a crime would not be deterred by the absence of airport
insurance, but would merely obtain their insurance elsewhere, which-as
Vernon himself pointed out-is a simple thing to do."
Expressed another way, Mel pointed out, flight insurance appeared only a
secondary motive of would-be saboteurs, and not a prime reason for their
crime. The real motives, when aerial sabotage occurred, were based on
age-old human weaknesses-love triangles, greed, business failures, suicide.
As long as there had been human beings, Mel argued, it had proven
impossible to eliminate these motives. Therefore, those concerned with
aviation safety and

sabotage prevention should seek, not to abolish airport flight insurance,

but to strengthen other precautionary measures in the air and on the ground.
One such measure was stricter control of the sale of dynamitethe principal
tool used by most aerial saboteurs to date. Another proposal was development
of "sniffer" devices to detect explosives in baggage. One such device, Mel
informed the attentive Airport Commissioners, was already in experimental
use.
A third idea-urged by flight insurance companieswas that passengers'
baggage be opened for examination before flight, in the same way that
happened with Customs inspection now. However, Mel concluded, the last idea
presented obvious difficulties.
There should be stricter enforcement, he claimed, of existing laws
prohibiting the carrying of side arms on commercial airliners. And airplane
design should be studied in relation to sabotage, with the objective that
aircraft could better endure an internal explosion. In that connection, one
idea-also advocated by the insurance vendinv companies-was for an inner
skin of baggage compartments to be made stronger and heavier than at
present, even at the price of increased weight and decreased airline
revenue.
The FAA, Mel pointed out, had made a study of airport insurance and
subsequently opposed any ban on airport sales. Mel glanced at Vernon
Demerest, who was glowering. Both knew that the FAA "study" was a sore
point with the airline pilots since it had been made by an insurance
company executive-an aviation insurance man himself-whose impartiality was
highly suspect.
There were several more points remaining in the insurance company notes
which Mel had not yet touched on, but he decided he had said enough.
Besides, some of the remaininp– arguments were less convincing, He even had
serious doubts, now that he had made it, about the baggage compartment
suggestion of a moment or two ago. Who would the extra weight be for, he
wondered –the passengers, airlines, or mostly for the flight insurance
companies? But the other arguments, he thought, were sound enough.

"So," he concluded, "what we have to decide is whether, because of

supposition and very little else, we should deprive the public of a service
which they so obviously want."
As Mel resumed his seat, Mildred Ackerman said promptly and emphatically,
"I'd say no." She shot Vernon Dernerest a glance of triumph.
With minimum formality the other commissioners agreed, then adjourned,
leaving other business until after-noon.
In the corridor outside, Vernon Dernerest was waiting for Mel.
"Hi, Vernon!" Mel spoke quickly, making an effort at conciliation before
his brother-in-law could speak. "No hard feelings, I hope. Even friends and
relatives have to differ now and then."
The "friends" was, of course, an overstatement. Mel Bakersfeld and Vernon
Demerest had never liked each other, despite Demerest's marriage to Mel's
sister, Sarab, and both men knew it; also, of late, the dislike bad
sharpened to open antagonism.
"You're damn right there are hard feellings," Demcrest said. The peak of
his anger had passed, but his eyes were hard.
The commissioners, now filing out from the Board room, looked curiously at
them both. The commissioners were on their way to lunch. In a few minutes
Mel would join them.
Demerest said contemptuously, "It's easy for people like you-ground-bound,
desk-tied, with penguins' minds. If you were in the air as often as I am,
you'd have a difforent point of view."
Mel said sharply, "I wasn't always flying a desk."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! Don't hand me that hero veteran crap. You're at
zero-feet now; the way you think shows it. If you weren't, you'd see this
insurance deal the way any self-respecting pilot does."
"You're sure you mean self-respecting, not selfadoring?" If Vernon wanted
a slanging match, Mel decided, he could have one. There was no one else
within hearing now. "The trouble with most of you

pilots is you've become so used to thinking of yourselves as demigods and

captains of the clouds, you've convinced yourselves your brains are
something wonderful too. Well, except in a few specialized ways, they're
not. Sometimes I think the rest of what you have has addled through sitting
up in that rarefied air too long while automatic pilots do the work. So when
someone comes up with an honest opinion which happens to run counter to your
own, you behave like spoiled little children."
"I'll let al] that stuff go," Dernerest said, "though if anybody's childish
it's you right now. What's more to the point is that you're dishonest."
"Now look, Vernon. . ."
"An honest opinion, you said." Dernerest sported in disgust. "Horiest
opinion, my eye! In there, you were using an insurance company poop sheet.
You were reading from it! I could see from where I was sitting, and I know
because I have a copy myself." He touched the pile of books and papers he
was carrying. "You didn't even have the decency, or take the trouble, to
prepare a case yourself."
Mel flushed. His brother-in-law had caught him out. He should have prepared
his own case, or at least adapted the insurance company's notes and had
them retyped. It was true he had been busier than usual for several days
before the meeting, but that was no excuse.
"Some day you may regret this," Vernon Demerest said. "If you. do, and I'm
around, I'll be the one to remind you of today. Until then, I can do
without seeing you any mote than I have to."
Before Mel could reply, his brother-in-law had turned and gone.

Remembeiing, now, with Tanya beside him in the main terminal concourse, Mel

wondered-as he had several times since-if he could not have handled the
clash with Vernon a good deal better. He could still have differed with his
brother-in-law; even now Mel saw no reason to change his point of view. But
he could have done it more good-naturedly, avoiding the tactless-

ness which was a part of Vernon Dernerest's makeup, but not of Mel's.

There had been no confrontation, since that day, between the two of them;
the near-encounter with Demcrest in the airport coffee shop tonight had
been Mel's first sight of his brother-in-law since the airport commis-
sioners' meeting. Mel had never been close to his older sister, Sarah,
and they seldom visited each other's homes. Yet sooner or later, Mel and
Vernon Dernerest would have to meet, if not to resolve their differences,
at least to shelve them. And, Mel thought, judging by the strongly worded
snow committee report-unquestionably inspired by Vernon's antagonism-the
sooner it happened, the better.
"I wouldn't have mentioned the insurance bit," Tanya said, "if I'd known
it would send you so far away from me.
Though the recollections which had flashed through his mind occupied only
seconds of time, Mel was conscious once again of Tanya's perceptiveness
concerning himself. No one else that he could remember had ever had quite
the same facility for divining his thoughts. It argued an instinctive
closeness between them.
He was aware of Tanya watching his face, her eyes gentle, understanding,
but beyond the gentleness was a woman's strength and a sensuality which
instinct told him could leap to flame. Suddenly, he wanted their
closeness to become closer still.
"You didn't send me far away," Mel answered. "You brought me nearer. At
this moment I want you very much." As their eyes met directly, he added,
"In every way.19
Tanya was characteristically frank. "I want you too." She smiled
slightly. "I have for a long time."
His impulse was to suggest that they both leave now, and find some quiet
place together … Tanya's apartment perhaps. . . and hang the
consequences! Then Mel accepted what he already knew; he couldn't go. Not
yet.
"We'll meet later," he told her. "Tonight. I'm not sure how much later,
but we will. Don't go home without me." He wanted to reach out, and seize
and

hold her, and press her body to his, but the traffic of the concourse was

all around them.
She reached out, her fingertips resting lightly on his band. The sense of
contact was electric. "I'll wait," Tanya said. "I'll wait as long as you
want."
A moment later she moved away, and was instantly swallowed tip in the press
of passengers around the Trans America counters.

6

Despite her forcefulness when she had talked with Mel a half-hour earlier,

Cindy Bakersfeld was uncertain what to do next. She wished there were
someone she could trust to advise her. Should she go to the airport tonight,
or not?
Alone and lonely, with the cocktail party babel of the Friends of the
Archidona Children's Relief Fund around her, Cindy brooded uneasily over
the two courses of action she could take. Through most of the evening,
until now, she had moved from group to group, chatting animatedly, meeting
people she knew, or wanted to. But for some reason tonight-rather more than
usualCindy was aware of being here unaccompanied. For the past few minutes
she had been standing thoughtfully, preoccupied, by herself.
She reasoned again: She didn't feel like going unescorted into dinner,
which would begin soon. So on the one band she could go home; on the other,
she could seek out Mel and face a fight.
On the telephone with Mel she had insisted she would go to the airport and
confront him. But if she went, Cindy realized, it would mean a
showdown-almost certainly irreversible and final-between them both.
Commonsense told her that sooner or later the show-

down must come, so better to have it now and done with; and there were other

related matters which had to be resolved. Yet fifteen years of marriage were
not to be shrugged off lightly like a disposable plastic raincoat. No matter
how many deficiencies and disagreements there were-and Cindy could think of
plenty-when two people lived together that long, there were connecting
strands between them which it would be painful to sever.
Even now, Cindy believed, their marriage could be salvaged if both of them
tried bard enough. The point was: Did they want to? Cindy was convinced she
didif Mel would meet some of her conditions, though in the past he bad
refused to, and she doubted very much if he would ever change as much as
she would like. Yet without some changes, continuing to live together as
they were would be intolerable. Lately there had not even been the
consolation of sex which once upon a time made up for other inadequacies.
Something had gone wrong there too, though Cindy was not sure what. Mel
still excited her sexually; even now, just thinking about him in that way
was enough to arouse her, and at this moment she was conscious of her body
stirring. But somehow, when the opportunity was there, their mental
separation inhibited them both. The result-at least in Cindy-was
frustration, anger, and later a sexual appetite so strong that she bad to
have a man. Any man.
She was still standing alone, in the plush La Salle Salon of the Lake
Michigan Inn, where tonight's reception for the press was being held. The
buzz of conversation around her was mostly about the storm and the
difficulty everyone had had in getting here; but at least –unlike Mel,
Cindy thought-they had made it. Occasionally there was a mention of
Archidona, reminding Cindy that she still hadn't found out which Archidona