Airport

as you are-her charity was directed at.
An arm brushed against hers and a voice said amiably, "No drink, Mrs.
Bakersfeld? Can I get you one?"

Cindy turred. The questioner was a newspaperman named Derek Eden, whom

she knew slightly. His byline appeared in the Sun-Times frequently. Like
many of his kind, lie had an easy, confident manner and air of mild
dissipation. She was aware that each of them had taken note of the other
on previous occasions.
"All right," Cindy said. "A Bourbon and water, go lightly on the water.
And please use my first name; I think you know it."
"Sure thing, Cindy." The newspaperman's eyes were admiring and frankly
appraising. Well, Cindy thought, why not? She knew she looked good
tonight; she had dressed well and made up carefully.
"I'll be back," Derek Eden assured her, "so don't go away now I've found
you." He headed purposefully for the bar.
Waiting, surveying the crowded La Salle Salon , Cindy caught the glance
of an older woman in a flowered hat. At once Cindy smiled warmly and the
woman nodded, but her eyes moved on. She was a society page columnist.
A photographer was beside her and together they were planning pictures
for what would probably be a full-page layout in tomorrow's paper. The
woman in the flowered hat motioned several of the charity workers and
their guests together, and they crowded in, smiling obligingly, trying
to look casual, but pleased that they had been selected. Cindy knew why
she had been passed over; alone she was not important enough, though she
would have been if Mel were there. In the city's life, Mel rated. The
galling thing was-socially, Mel didn't care.
Across the room the photographer's light gun flashed; the woman in the
hat was writing names. Cindy could have cried. For almost every charity
. . . she volunteered, worked hard, served on the meanest committees, did
menial chores which more socially prominent women rejected; then to be
left out like this …
Damn you again, Mel Bakersfeld! Damn the bitching snow! And screw that
demanding, stinking marriagewrecking airport!
The newspaperman, Derek Eden, was coming back

with Cindy's drink and one of his own. Threading his way across the room, he

saw her watching him and smiled. He looked sure of himself. If Cindy knew
men, he was probably calculating what his chances were of laying her
tonight. Reporters, she supposed, knew all about neglected, lonely wives.
Cindy (lid some calculating of her own concerning Derek Eden. Early
thirties, she thought; old enough to be experienced, young enough to be
taught a thing or two and to get excited, which was what Cindy liked. A
good body from the outward look of him. He would be considerate, probably
tender; would give as well as take. And he was available; even before he
left to get the drinks he had already made that clear. Communication didn't
take long between two reasonably sensitive people with a similar idea.
A few minutes earlier she had weighed the alternatives of going home or to
the airport. Now, it seemed, there might be a third choice.
"There you are." Derek Eden handed her the drink. She glanced at it; there
was a lot of Bourbon, and he had probably told the barman to pour heavily.
Reallyl –men were so obvious.
"Thank you." She sipped, and regarded him across the glass.
Derek Eden raised his own drink and smiled. "Noisy in here, isrA it?"
For a writer, Cindy thought, his dialogue was deplorably unoriginal. She
supposed she was expected to say yes, then the next thing he would come up
with would be, Why don't we go some place where it's quieter? The lines to
follow were equally predictable.
Postponing her response, Cindy took another sip of Bourbon.
She considered. Of course, if Lionel were in town she would not have
bothered with this man. But Lionel, who was her storm anchor at other
times, and who wanted her to divorce Mel so that he, Lionel, could marry
her, Cindy … Lionel was in Cincinnati (or was it Columbus?) doing
whatever architects did when they

went on business trips, and wouldn't be back for another ten days, perhaps

longer.
I Mel didn't know about Cindy and Lionel, at least not specifically, though
Cindy had an idea that Mel suspected she had a lover somewhere. stashed
away. She also had a parallel notion that Mel didn't mind much. It gave him
an excuse to concentrate on the airport, to the total exclusion of herself;
that goddanined airport, which had been fifty times worse than a mistress in
their marriage.
It had not always been that way.
Early in their marriage, soon after Mel left the Navy, Cindy had been proud
of his ambitions. Later, when Mel was rapidly ascending the lower rungs of
aviation management, she was happy when promotions, new appointments, came
his way. As Mel's stature grew, so did Cindy's-especially socially, and in
those days they had social engagements almost every evening. On behalf of
them both. Cindy accepted invitations to cocktail parties, private dinners,
opening nights, charity soirees … and if there were two the same night,
Cindy was expert at judging which was more important, and turning down the
other. That kind of socializing, getting to know prominent people, was
important to a young man on the rise. Even Mel saw that. He went along with
everything Cindy arranged, without complaining.
The trouble was, Cindy now realized, she and Mel bad two different
long-term aims. Mel saw their social life as a means to fulfilling his
professional ambitions; his career was the essential, the socializing a
tool which eventually he would dispense with. Cindy, on the other hand.,
envisaged Mel's career as a passport to an even greater-and higher
level-social life. Looking back, it sometimes occurred to her that if they
had understood each other's point of view better in the beginning, they
might have compromised. Unfortunately, they hadn't.
Their differences began around the time that Mel-in addition to being
general manager of Lincoln Tnternational-was elected president of the
Airport Operators Council.
When Cindy learned that her husband's activity and

influence now extended to Washington, D.C., she had been overjoyed. His

subsequent summons to the White House, the rapport with President Kennedy,
led Cindy to assume they would plunge forthwith into Washington society. In
roseate daydreams she saw herself strolling –and being photographed-with
Jackie or Ethel or Joan, at Hyannis Port or on the White House lawn.
It hadn't happened; not any of it. Mel and Cindy had not become involved in
Washington social life at all, although they could have done so quite
easily. Instead, they begari-at Mel's insistence-dechning some invitations.
Mel reasoned that his professional reputation was now such that he no
longer needed to worry about being "in" socially, a status he had never
cared for, anyway.
When she caught on to what was happening, Cindy exploded, and they had a
first-class row. That was a mistake, too. Mel would sometimes respond to
reason, but Cindy's anger usually made him stand firm to the point of
obstinacy. Their dispute raged for a week, Cindy becoming bitchier as it
progressed, thus making things worse. Being bitchy was one of Cindy's
failings, and she knew it. Half the time she didn't intend to be that way,
but sometimes, faced with Mel's indifference, her fiery temper got the
better of her-as it had on the telephone tonight.
After the week-long argument, which never really ended, their quarrels
became more frequent; they also stopped trying to conceal them from the
children, which was impossible, anyway. Once-to the shame of them
both-Roberta announced that in future after school she would be going to a
friend's house first, "because when I stay home, I can't do my homework
while you're fighting."
Eventually a pattern was established. Some evenings Mel accompanied Cindy
to certain social events which he bad agreed on in advance. Otherwise, he
stayed longer bours at the airport and came home less frequently. Finding
herself alone much more, Cindy concentrated on what Mel sneered at as her
"junior league charities" and "silly social climbing."
Well, maybe at times, Cindy thought, it did look silly

to Mel. But she didn't have much else, and it so bappened she enjoyed the

social status competition-which was what it was, really. It was all very
well for a man to criticize; men had plenty of activities to occupy their
time. In Mel's case there was his career, his airport, his
responsibilities. What was Cindy supposed to do? Stay home all day and
dust the house?
Cindy had no illusions about herself so far as mental acuity went. She
was no great intellect, and she knew that in lots of ways, mentally, she
would never measure up to Mel. But then, that was nothing new. In their
early years of marriage, Mel used to find her occasional mild stupidities
amusing, though nowadays when he derided her-as he had taken to doing
lately-he seemed to have forgotten that. Cindy was also realistic about
her former career as an actress-she would never have made the grade to
stardom, or have come close to it. It was true that, in the past, she
sometimes implied that she might have done so if marriage had not ended
her theatrical activity. But that was merely a form of selfdefense, a
need to remind others-including Mel-that she was an individual as well
as being the airport manager's wife. Within herself Cindy knew the truth-
that as a professional actress she would almost certainly not have risen
above bit parts.
The involvement in social life, however-in the mise en scMe of local
society-was something Cindy could handle. It gave her a sense of identity
and importance. And although Mel scoffed, and denied that what Cindy had
done wits an achievement, she had managed to climb, to be accepted by
socially conspicuous people whom she would not have met otherwise, and
to be involved in events like tonight's … except that on this occasion
she needed Mel as escort, and Mel-thinking first of his goddamned
airport, as always-had let her down.
Mel, who had so much in the way of identity and prestige, bad never
understood Cindy's need to carve out some kind of individuality for
herself. She doubted if he ever would.
Just the Kime, Cindy had gone ahead. She also had

plans for the future which she knew would entail a monstrous family battle

if she and Mel stayed married. It was Cindy's ambition to have her daughter
Roberta, and later Libby, presented as debutantes at the Passavant
Cotillion, glittering apex of the Illinois deb season. As the girls' mother,
Cindy herself would garner social status.
She had once mentioned the notion casually to Met, who reacted angrily,
"Over my dead body!" Debutantes and their silly, simpering mothers, he
advised Cindy, belonged to an age that was gone. Debutante balls, he
declared-and thank goodness there were few of them left-were an
anachronistic perpetuation of a snobbery and class ,tructure which the
nation was fortunately shedding, though-judging by people who still thought
as Cindy did-not nearly fast enough. Mel wanted his children to gTow up (he
told Cindy) with the knowledge that they were equal to others, but not with
some conceited, misguided notion that they were socially superior. And so
on.
Unusual for Mel, whose policy declarations were normally brief and concise,
he had gone on for some time.
Lionel, on the other hand, thought the whole thing was a good idea.
Lionel was Lionel Urquhart. At the moment he hovered alongside Cindy's life
in the shape of a question mark.
Curious]),, it was Mel who had brought Cindy and Lionel together to begin
with. Mel had introduced them at a civic luncheon which Lionel was
attending because of something architectural he had done for the city, and
Mel was there because of the airport. The two men had known each other
casually for years.
Afterward, Lionel telephoned Cindy, and they met a few times for luncheons
and dinners, then more frequently, and eventually for the ultimate intimacy
between a man and a woman.
Unlike many people who made a practice of extramarital sex, Lionel had
taken the experience extremely seriously. lie lived alone, having been
separated from his wife for several years, but was not divorced. Now he

wanted to get a divorce, and have Cindy do the same, so they could marry.

By this time, he knew that Cindy's own marriage was shaky.
Lionel and his estranged wife had never had children
a fact, he confided to Cindy, that he greatly regretted. It was not too
late, he declared, for Cindy and himself to have a child if they married
soon. Also, he would be more than happy to provide a home for Roberta and
Libby, and would do his best to be a substitute father.
Cindy had put off a decision for several reasons. Principally, she hoped
that relations between herself and Mel would improve, making their
marriage closer to what it used to be. She could not say with assurance
that she was still in love with Mel; love, Cindy found, was something you
became more skeptical about as you grew older. But at least she was used
to Mel. He was there; so were Roberta and Libby; and, like many women,
Cindy dreaded a major upheaval in her life.
Initially, too, she believed that a divorce and remarriage would be
damaging to her socially. On this point, however, she had now changed her
mind. Plenty of people had divorces without dropping out of sight so-
cially, even temporarily, and one saw wives with old husbands one week,
new ones the next. Cindy even had the impression sometimes that not to
have been divorced, at least once, was somewhat square.
It was possible that marriage to Lionel might improve Cindy's status
socially. Lionel was much more amenable to partying and entertaining than
Mel. Also, the Urquharts were an old, respected city family. Lionel's
mother still presided, dowager-like, over a decaying mansion near the
Drake Hotel, where an antique butler ushered visitors in, and an
arthritic maid brought afternoon tea on a silver tray. Lionel had taken
Cindy there for tea one day. Afterward be reported that Cindy had made
a good impression, and he was sure he could persuade his mother to
sponsor Roberta and Libby as debutantes when the time came.
There and then-because her differences with Mel had grown even more
intense-Cindy might have

plunged ahead, committing herself to Lionel, except for one thing. Sexually,

Lionel was a dying duck.
He tried hard, and occasionally he managed to surprise her, but most of the
times they made love he was like a clock whose mainspring is running down.
He said gloomily one night, after an abortive session in the bedroom of his
apartment, which had been frustrating for both of them, "You should have
known me when I was eighteen; I was a young ram." Unfortunately, Lionel was
now a long way from eighteen; he was forty-eight.
Cindy envisaged that if she married Lionel, such limited sex as they now
enjoyed as lovers would drift into nothingness when they came to live
together. Of course, Lionel would try to make up in other ways-he was kind,
generous, considerate-but was that enough? Cindy was far from being on the
wane sexually; she had always been strongly sensual, and lately her desire
and sexual appetite seemed to have grown. But even if Lionel failed in that
area, she wasn't batting any better with Mel right now, so what was the
difference? Overall, Lionel would give her more.
Perhaps the answer was to marry Lionel Urquhart and do some bedding down on
the side. The latter might be difficult, especially when she was newly
married, but if she was cautious it could be managed. Other people she knew
of-men and women, some in high placesdid the same thing to keep themselves
satiated physicaUy, and their marriages intact. After all, she had suc-
cceded in deceiving Mel. He might suspect her in a general sense, but Cindy
was positive that Mel had no definite knowledge about Lionel or anyone
else.
Now, how about tonight? Should she go to the airport for a showdown with
Mel, as she had considered earlier? Or should she let herself get involved
for the evening with this newspaperman, Derek Eden, who was standing beside
her waiting for an answer to his question.
It occurred to Cindy that perhaps she could manage both.
She smiled at Derek Eden. "TeU me again. What was it you said?"

"I said it was noisy in here."

"Yes, it ii."
"I wond,-red if we might skip the dinner and go somewhere quieter."
Cindy could have laughed aloud. Instead, she nodded. "All right."
She glanced around at the other hosts and guests of the Archidona
Children's Relief Fund press party. The photographers had stopped taking
pictures; so there was really no point in staying any longer. She could
slip out quietly, and not be noticed.
Derek Eden asked, "Do you have a car here, Cindy?"
"No, do you?" Because of the weather, Cindy had come in a taxi.
'Yes.
"All right," she said, "I won't leave here with you. But if you're
waiting in your car, outside, I'll come through the main doors in fifteen
minutes."
"Better make it twenty minutes. I'll need to make a couple of phone
calls."
"Very well."
"Do you have any preference? I mean where we'll
?1)

:, That's entirely up to you."

He hesitated, then said, "Would you like dinner first?"
She thought amusedly: the "first" was a message-to make quite sure she
understood what she was getting into.
"No," C~idy said. "I haven't time. I have to be somewhere else later."
She saw Derek Eden's eyes glance down, then return to her face. She
sensed the intake of his breath, and had the impression that be was
marveling at his own good fortune. "You're the greatest," he said. "I'll
only believe my good luck when you come out through those doors."
With that, he turned away and slipped quietly from the La Salle Salon.
A quarter of an hour later, unnoticed, Cindy followed him.
She collected her coat and, as she left the Lake Michigan Ina, drew it
closely around her. Outside it was

still snowing, and an icy, shrieking wind swept across the open spaces of

the Lakeshore and the Outer Drive. The weather made Cindy remember the
airport. A few minutes ago she had made a firm resolve: she would still go
there, later tonight; but it was early yet-not quite half-past nine-and
there was plenty of time-for everything.
A porter forsook the shelter of the Inn doorway and touched his hat. "Taxi,
ma'am?"
"I don't think so."
At that moment the lights of a car in the parking lot came on. It moved
forward, skidding once on the loose snow, then came toward the door where
Cindy was waiting. The car was a Chevrolet, several models old. She could
see Derek Eden at the wheel.
The porter held the car door open and Cindy got in. As the door slammed
closed, Derek Eden said, "Sorry about the car being cold. I had to call the
paper, then make some arrangements for us. I got here just ahead of
19
you.
Cindy shivered, and pulled her coat even tighter. "Wherever we're going, I
hope it's warm."
Derek Eden reached across and took her hand. Since the hand was resting on
her knee, he held that too. Briefly she felt his fingers move, then he
returned his band to the wheel. He said softly, "You'll be warm. I
promise."

7

Forty-five minutes before its scheduled departure time of 10 P.m., Trans

America Airline Flight Two-The Golden Argosy, Captain Vernon Demerest
commanding –was in the final stages of preparation for its five-thou-
sand-mile, non-stop journey to Rome.

General preparations for the flight had been under way for months and

weeks and days. Others, more immediate, had continued for the past
twenty-four hours.
An airline flight from any major terminal is, in effect, like a river
joining the sea. Before it reaches the sea, a river is fed by
tributaries, originating far back in time and distance, each tributary
joined along its length by others, either greater or smaller. At length,
at the river's mouth, the river itself is the sum of everything which
flowed into it. Translated into aviation terms, the river at the sea is
an airliner at its moment of takeoff.
The aircraft for Flight Two was a Boeing 707-320B Intercontinental
Jetliner, registered number N-731-TA. It was powered by four Pratt &
Wbitney turbofan jet engines, providing a cruising speed of six hundred
and five miles per hour. The aircraft's range, at maximum weight, was six
thousand miles, or the straight line distance from Iceland to Hong Kong.
It carried a hundred and ninety-nine passengers and twenty-five thousand
U.S. gallons of fuel-enough to fill a good-size swimming pool. The
aircraft's cost to Trans America Airlines was six and a half rtillion
dollars.
The day before yesterday N-731-TA had flown from Diisseldorf, Germany,
and, two hours out from Lincoln International, an engine overheated. As
a precaution, the captain ordered it shut down. None of the aircraft's
passengers were aware that they were operating with three engines instead
of four; if necessary, the aircraft could have flown on one. Nor was the
flight even late arriving.
Trans America Maintenance, however, was advised by company radio. As a
result, a crew of mechanics was waiting, and whisked the airplane to a
hangar as soon as passengers and freight were disembarked. Even while
taxiing to the hangar, diagnostic specialists were at work, seeking out
the airplane's trouble, which they located quickly.
A pneumatic duct-a stainless steel pipe around the affected engine-bad
cracked and broken in flight. The immediate procedure was for the engine
to be removed

and a replacement installed. That was relatively simple. More complicated

was the fact that for several minutes before the overheating engine was
shut down, extremely hot air must have escaped into the engine nacelle.
This heat could conceivably have damaged one hundred and eight pairs of
wires from the aircraft's electrical system.
Close examination of the wires showed that while some had been heated,
none apparently had suffered damage. If a similar condition had occurred
within an automobile, bus, or truck, the vehicle would have been put back
into service without question. But airlines took no such chances. It was
decided that all one hundred and eight pairs of wires must be replaced.
The work of replacement was highly skilled, but exacting and tcdious
because only two men at a time could operate in the confined space of the
engine nacelle. Moreover, cach pair of wires must be identified, then
connected painstakingly to Cannon plugs. A non-stop, day-and-night effort
was planned, with teams of electrical mechanics relieving each other.
The entire job would cost Trans America Airlines thousands of dollars in
skilled man-hours and lost revenue while the big aircraft was
unproductive on the ground. But the loss was accepted without question,
as all airlines accepted such losses in pursuit of high safety standards.
The Boeing 707-N-731-TA-which was to have flown to th(~. West Coast and
back before its flight to Rome, was taken out of service. Operations was
advised, and hastily shuffled schedules to help bridge the gap. A
connecting flight was canceled and several dozen passengers transferred
to competitive airlines. There was no substitute aircraft. When it came
to multimilliondollar jets, airlines did not carry spares.
Operations, however, urged Maintenance to have the 707 ready for Flight
Two to Rome, which was then thirty-six hours away from scheduled
departure. An operations vice-president in New York personally called the
Trans America base maintenance chief, and was told: "If we can get it
ready for you, we will." A topnotch foreman and a crack crew of mechanics
and elec-

tricians were already on the job, all of them aware of the importince of

fi~nishing quickly. A second crew, to relieve the others through the night,
was being rounded up. Both crews would work extra hours until the job was
done.
Contrary to general belief, aircraft mechanics took a close interest in the
operational flights of airplanes they serviced. After a complex job, or a
rush one such as this, they would follow the progress of a particular air-
plane to learn how their work had stood up. It was a source of satisfaction
to them when, as usually happened, the airplane functioned well. Months
later they might say lo each other, observing an airplane taxiing in,
"There's old 842. Remember that time . . . and the trouble we had with her.
I guess we cured it."
Through the critical day and a half following discovery of the trouble with
N-731-TA, work on the airplane, though slow by its nature, continued as
speedily as possible.
At length, three hours from Flight Two's departure time, the last of the
hundred-odd pairs of wires was reconnected.
It took another hour to replace the engine cowlings and for an engine
run-up on the ground. Then, before the airplane could be accepted for
service, an air test was required. By this time, urgent calls from
Operations demanded: Would N-73 I –TA be ready for Flight Two or not? If
not, would Maintenance for Chrissake say so, so Sales could be informed of
a possible long delay, and passengers notified before they left their
homes.
His fingcrs crossed, and touching wood, the maintenance chief replied that,
barring complications on the air test, the aircraft would be available on
time.
It was-but only just. The chief Trans America pilot at the base, who had
been standing by for just that purpose, test flew the airplane, barreling
up through the storm to clearer altitudes above. He reported on return:
"You guys down here'd never know it, but the moon's still there," then
certified N-731-TA as completely airworthy. Executive pilots like that kind
of assignment; it

helped build up their needed flying hours without going far from their

desks.
There was so little time left when the chief pflot landed, that he taxied
the airplane directly to gate forty-seven of the terminal, where-as
Flight Two, The Golden A rgosy-it was to load.
Thus Maintenance had come through-as Maintenance did so often-but no
corners had been cut.
Once the airplane was at its gate, knots of workers bustled in and around
it like scurrying elves.
Food was a major item to go aboard. Seventy-five minutes before departure
time, Departure Control called the caterer's flight kitchen, ordering
food for the flight, according to the number of passengers expected. To-
night the first-class section of Flight Two would have only two vacant
seats; the economy section would be three quarters full. First-class, as
usual, was allocated six meals extra; economy had the same number of
meals as passengers. Thus, first-class passengers could have a second
dinner if they asked for it; economy passengers couldn't.
Despite the exact count, a last-minute passenger would always get a meal.
Spare meals-including Kosher meals-were available in lockers near the de-
parture gate. If an unexpected passenger went aboard as doors were
closing, his food tray was passed in after him.
Liquor stocks, requiring a signed stewardess receipt, came aboard too.
Liquor for first-class passengers were free; tourist passengers paid a
dollar a drink (or the equivalent in foreign currency) unless they took
advantage of a piece of inside information. The information was that
stewardesses were issued almost no change, sometimes none, and where a
stewardess could not make change, her instructions were to give the pas-
senger his or her drinks free. Some regular travelers had drunk free for
years in tourist class, merely by proffering a fifty– or twenty-dollar
bill and insisting they had nothing smaller.
At the lame time that the food and liquor went aboard, other commissary
supplies were checked and

replenished There were several hundred items, ranging from babies' diapers,

blankets, pillows, airsick bags, and a Gideon Bible to accessories like
"Tray, beverage service, 8-hole, qty. 5." All were expendable. At the
conclusion of a flight, airlines never bothered checking inventories.
Whatever was missing was replaced without question, which was why passengers
who walked from an airplane with anything portable were seldom stopped.
Included in commissary supplies were magazines and newspapers. Newspapers
were usually available on flights-with an exception. The Trans America
commissary had a standing order: if a newspaper front page featured an air
disaster, the newspapers were not to go aboard, but were thrown away. Most
other airlines had the same rule.
Tonight, on Flight Two, there were plenty of newspapers. The principal news
was weather-the effect, on the entire Midwest, of the three-day winter
storm.
Baggage was now coming aboard Flight Two as passengers weie beginning to
check in. When a passenger saw his bag disappear at the check-in counter it
went, by a series of conveyor belts, to a room deep below the departure
gates which baggage men privately called "the lion's den." It acquired that
name because (so baggage men confided after several drinks) only the brave
or innocent would allow a bag they cared about to enter here. Some bags as
saddened owners could testifycame into tLe lion's den and were never seen
again.
In the d(-n, an attendant on duty watched each bag arrive. According to its
destination label, he flicked a lever on a panel and, a moment later, an
automatic arm reached out and grabbed the bag, setting it beside others for
the sam– flight. From this point, and others, a crew of several men
transferred all bags to the proper airplanes.
It was ar, excellent system-when it worked. Unfortunately, it often didn't.
Bag1c,age hand] ing-airlines conceded privately-was the least efficient
part of air travel. In an age where human ing(nuity could place a capsule
the size of a houseboat in outer space, it was a fact that an airline

passenger's bag could not be counted on to arrive safely at Pine Bluff,

Arkansas, or Minneapolis-St. Paul, or even at the same time as the
passenger. An astounding amount of airline baggage-at least one bag in
every hundred-went to wrong destinations, was delayed, or lost entirely.
Executives pointed woefully to the many opportunities for human error
which existed with baggage handling. Efficiency experts periodically
examined airline baggage systems, and periodically they were improved. Yet
no one had come up with a system which was infallible, or even close to
it. The result was that all airlines employed staffs, at every major
terminal, whose job was solely to trace missing baggage. Such staffs were
seldom idle.
An experienced, cagey traveler did the best he could by making sure that
the tags which agents or porters put on his bags when he checked in
showed his correct destination. Often they didn't. With surprising fre-
quency, wrong tags were slapped on in baste, and had to be changed when
the error was pointed out. Even then, when the bags disappeared from
sight, there was the sense of having entered a lottery, and at that point
the traveler could only pray that some day, somewhere, he would be
reunited with his luggage again.
Tonight, at Lincoln International-though no one knew it yet-the baggage
for Flight Two was already incomplete. Two bags, which should have gone
to Rome, were at this moment being loaded aboard a flight for Milwaukee.
Freight was now going aboard Flight Two in a steady stream. So was mail.
Tonight there were nine thousand pounds of mail in colored nylon bags,
some for Italian cities for onward transmission to faraway places, whose
names read like pages from Marco Polo … Zanzibar, Khartoum, Mombassa,
Jerusalem, Athens, Rhodes, Calcutta …
The heavier-tban-usual mail load was a bonus for Trans America. A flight
of British Overseas Airways Corporation scheduled to leave shortly before
Trans America Fli,-,ht Two, had just announced a three-hour delay. The
post office ramp supervisor, who kept con-

stant watch on schedules and delays, promptly ordered a switch of mail from

the BOAC airliner to Trans America. The British airline would be unhappy
because carriage of mail was highly profitable, and competition for post
office business keen. All airlines kept uniformed representatives at airport
post offices, their job to keep an eye on the flow of mail and insure that
their own airline got a "fair share"-or more-of the outgoing volume. Post
office supervisors sometimes had favorites among the airline men, and saw to
it that business came their way. But in cases of delay, friendships didn't
count. At such moments there was an inflexible rule: the mail went by the
faster route.
Inside thc terminal, at lower level, and a few hundred feet from the Boeing
707 aircraft which was now Flight Two, was Trans America Control Center
(Lincoln International). The center was a bustling, jam-packed, noisy
conglomeration of people, desks, telephones, teletypes, Tel Autographs,
private line TV, and information boards. Its personnel were responsible for
directing the preparation of Flight Two and all other Trans America
flights. On occasions like tonight, with schedules chaotic because of the
storm, the atmosphere was pandemonic, the scene resembling an old-time
newspaper city room, as seen by Hollywood.
In a corner of the control center was the Load Control Desk-the desk top
invisible beneath a sea of paper-occupied by a young, bearded man with the
improbable name of Fred Phirmphoot. In his spare time Phirmphoot was an
amateur abstract painter; recently he had taken to throwing paint on
canvas, then riding over it with a child's tricycle. He was reputed to
dabble-at weekends-with LSD, and also suffered from body odor. The last was
a constant annoyance to his fellow workers in the control center-hot and
stuffy tonight despite the cold, bitter weather outside-and more than once
Fred Phirmphoot had been told that he should take a bath more often.
Yet, paradoxically, Phirmphoot had a keen mathematician's mind, and his
superiors swore that he was one of the best load control men in the
business. At the

moment he was masterminding the loading of Flight Two.

An airplane (Fred Phirmphoot would occasionally explain to his bored beat
friends), "She's a bird that's a teeter-totler, man. If you ain't hep,
that airplane chick'11 teeter or totter, maybe the twain; but me, baby,
I don't let it none."
The trick was to distribute weight correctly through the airplane so that
its fulcrum point and center of gravity were at predetermined places;
hence, the aircraft would be balanced, and stable in the air. Fred Phirm-
phoot's job was to calculate how much could be stowed aboard Flight Two
(and other flights) and where. No mailbag, no individual piece of
freight, went into any position in the aircraft hold without his say-so.
At the same time, he was concerned with cramming in as much as possible.
"Illinois to Rome, man," Fred was apt to declare, "that's long spaghetti.
It don't pay off in marmalade."
He worked with charts, manifests, tabulations, an adding machine,
last-minute messages, a walkie-taMe, three telephones-and an uncanny
instinct.
The ramp supervisor had just asked, by walkie-talkie, for permission to
load another three hundred pounds of mail in the forward compartment.
"Roger-dodger," Fred Phirmphoot acknowledged. He shuffled papers,
checking the passenger manifest which had lengthened in the past two
hours. Airlines allowed an average weight for passengers-a hundred and
seventy pounds in winter, ten pounds less in summer. The average always
worked out, with one exception: when a football team was traveling. The
husky ballplayers threw all calculations out of joint, and at that time
load dispatchers added their own estimates, which varied according to how
well they knew the team. Baseball and hockey players were no problem;
being smaller they fitted the average. Tonight the manifest showed that
Flight Two had only normal passengers.
"It's okay for the mail, baby," Fred Phirmphoot replied into the
walkie-talkie, "but I want that coffin moved back to the rear
compartment; from the look of

the weight slip, that dead guy was a fatso. Also, there's a packaged

generator from Westinghouse. Locate that midships; the rest of the freight
can fit around it."
Phirmpboot's problems had just been added to by an order from the Crew
of Flight Two that an extra two thousand pounds of fuel were to be added
for taxfing and ground running, in addition to the normal reserve for
that purpose. Out on the airfield tonight, all aircraft were being
subjected to long delays, with engines running, before takeoff. A jet
engine, operating at ground level, drank fuel Re a thirsty elephant, and
Captains Dernerest and Harris didn't want to waste precious gallonage
which they might require on the way to Rome. At the same time, Fred
Phirmphoot had to calculate that all that extra fuel, which was now being
pumped into the wing tanks of N-731-TA, might not be burned before
takeoff; therefore, some of it could be added to the total takeoff
weight. The question was, how much?
There were safety limits for gross weights at takeoff, yet with every
airline flight the objective was to carry as much as po ssible, to earn
maximum revenue. Fred Phirmphoot's dirty fingernails danced over his
adding machine, making hasty computations. He pondered the result,
fingering his beard, his body odor rather worse than usual.
The decision about extra fuel was one of many decisions which Captain
Vernon Demerest had been makini: for the past half hour. Or rather, he
had been letting Captain Anson Harris make the decisions, then-as check
captain with the final responsibility-Demerest approved them. Vernon
Demerest was enjoying his passive role tonight-having someone else do
most of the work, yet relinquishing none of his own authority. So far
Dernerest had not faulted any of Anson Harris's decisions, which was not
surprising since Harris's experience and seniority were almost as great
as Demerest's own.
Harris had been dour and huffy when they met for the second time tonight
in the crew room at the Trans America hai~gar. Dernerest noted with
amusement that Anson Harris was wearing a regulation shirt, though it was
on the s.-iiall side, and every now and then Harris's

hand wotild go up to ease the collar. Captain Harris had managed to switch

shirts with an obliging first officer who later related the story
zestfully to his own captain.
But afier a few minutes, Harris relaxed. A professional to his bushy,
graying eyebrows, he was aware that no flight crew could function
efficiently with hostility in the cockpit.
In the crew room both captains inspected their mail slots, and there was
a pile of mail as usual, some of it company bulletins which must be read
before tonight's flight. The remainder-memos from the chief pilot,
medical branch, the research department, cartographer's office, and the
rest, they would take home to go through later.
While Anson Harris inserted a couple of amendments in his fligtit
manuals-which Demerest had announced his intenti,)n of checking-Vernon
Dernerest studied the Crew Schedule Board.
The Schedule Board was made up monthly. It showed the dates on which
captains and first and second officers would fly, and on which routes.
There was a similar board for stewardesses in their crew room down the
hall.
Every pilot bid, each month, for the route he wanted
to fly, and those who were most senior got first choice.
Demerest invariabl ' Y got what he bid for; so did Gwen
Meighen, whose seniority among the stewardesses was
correspondingly high. It was the bidding system which
made it possible for pilots and stewardesses to make
mutual layover plans much as Demerest and Gwen had
done in advance of tonight.
Anson Harris had finished the hasty amending of his flight manuals.
Vernon Dernerest grinned. "I guess your manuals are okay, Anson. I've
changed my mind; I won't inspect them."
Captain Harris gave no sign, except a tightening around his mouth.
The second officer for the flight, a young two-striper named Cy Jordan,
had joined them. Jordan was flight engineer; dso a qualified pilot. He
was lean and an-

gular, with a hollow-cbeeked, mournful face, and always looked as if he

needed a good meal. Stewardesses heaped extra food upon him, but it never
seemed to make any difference.
The first officer who usually flew as second-in-command to Dernerest,
tonight had been told to stay home, though under his union contract he
would receive full pay for the round-trip flight. In the first officer's
absence, Demerest would do some of the first officer duties, Jordan the
rest. Anson Harris would do most of the flying.
"Okay," Demerest told the other two, "let's get moving."
The crew bus, snow-covered, its windows steamed inside, was waiting at
the hangar door. The five stewardesses for Flight Two were already in the
bus, and there was a chorus of "Good evening, Captain . . . good evening.
Captain," as Demerest and Anson Harris clambered in, followed by Jordan.
A gust of wind. and snow flurries. accompanied the pilots. The bus driver
hastily closed the door.
"Hi. girls!" Vernon Demerest waved cheerfully, and winked at Gwen. More
conventionally, Anson Harris added a "Good evening."
The wind buffeted the bus as the driver felt his way warily around the
plowed perimeter track the snowbanks high on either side. Word had
filtered around the airport of the experience of the United Air Lines
food truck earlier in the evening, and all vehicle drivers were beinv
cautious as a result. As the crew bus neared its destination, the bright
terminal lights were a beacon in the darkness. Farther out on the
airfield a steady stream of aircraft was taking off and landing.
The bus stopped and the crew scrambled out, diving for the shelter of the
nearest door. They were now in the Trans America wing, of the terminal
at lower level. The passenger departure gates-including gate forty-seven,
where Fligbt Two was being readied-were above.
The stewardesses went off to complete their own preflight procedures
while the three pilots beaded for the Trans America international
dispatch office.

The dispatcher, as always, had prepared a folder with the complex

information which the flight crew would need. He spread it out on the
dispatch office counter and the three pilots pored over it. Behind the
counter a half-dozen clerks were assembling world-wide information on
aLrways, airport conditions, and weather which other international
flights of Trans America would require tonight. A similar dispatch room
for domestic flights was down the ball.
It was at that point that Anson Harris tapped a preliminary load report
with his pipestem and asked for the extra two thousand pounds of fuel for
taxiing. He glanced iu the second officer, Jordan, who was checking fuel
consumption graphs, and Demerest. Both nodded agreemew, and the
dispatcher scribbled an order which would be relayed to the ramp fueling
office.
The company weather forecaster joined the other four. He was a pale young
man, scholarly behind rimless glasses, who looked as if he rarely
ventured out into the weather personally.
Demercst inquired, "What have the computers given us toniglA, John?
Something better than here, I hope."
More and more, airline weather forecasts and flight plans were being
spewed out by computers. Trans America and other airlines still
maintained a personal element, with individuals liaising between
computers and flight crew&, but predictions were that the human
weathermen would disappear soon.
The foiecaster shook his head as he spread out several facsimile weather
charts. "Nothing better until you're ovi.-r mid-Atlantic, I'm afraid. We
have some improved weather coming in here soon, but since you're going
east you'll catch up with what's already left us. The storm we're in now
extends all the way from here to NewfoLndland, and beyond." He used a
pencil point to trace Crie storm's wide swathe. "Along your route,
incidentally, Detroit Metropolitan and Toronto airports are both telow
limits and have closed down."
The dispatcher scanned a teletype slip which a clerk had handtd him. lie
interjected, "Add Ottawa; they're closing riglit now."

"Beyond raid-Atlantic," the weatherman said, "everything looks good.

There are scattered disturbances across southern Europe, as you can see,
but at your altitudes they shouldn't bother you. Rome is clear and sunny,
and should stay that way for several days."
Captain Dernerest leaned over the southern Europe map. "How about
Naples?"
The weatherman looked puzzled. "Your flight doesn't go there."
"No, but I'm interested."
"It's in the same high pressure system as Rome. The weather will be
good."
Demerest grinned.
The young forecaster launched into a dissertation concerning
iemperatures, and high and low pressure areas, and winds aloft. For the
portion of the flight which would be over Canada he recommended a more
northerly course than usual to avoid strong headwinds which would be
encountered farther south. The pilots listened attentively. Whether by
computer or human calculation, choosing the best altitudes and route was
like a game of cht.ss in which intellect could triumph over nature. All
pilots were trained in such matters; so were company weather forecasters,
more attuned to individual airline needs than their counterparts in the
U. S. Weather Bw eau.
"As soon as your fuel load permits," the Trans America fonz~caster said,
"I'd recommend an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet."
The secotid officer checked his graphs; before N731-TA could climb that
high, they would have to bum off some of their initially heavy fuel load.
After a lew moments the second officer reported, "We should be able to
reach thirty-three thousand around Det roit. "
Anson Harris nodded. His gold ballpoint pen was racing as he filled in
a flight plan which, in a few minutes' time, lie would file with air
traffic control. ATC would then tell him whether or not the altitudes he
sought were available and, if not, what others he might have. Vernon
Demerest, who normally would have pre-

pared his Own flight Plan, glanced over the form when Captain Harris

finished, then signed it.
All preparations for Flight Two, it seemed, were going well. Despite the
storm, it appeared as if The Golden Argosy, pride of Trans America, would
depart on time.
It was Gwen Meighen who met the three pilots as they came aboard the
aircraft. She asked, "Did you hear?"
Anson Harris said, "Hear what?"
"We're delayed an hour. The gate agent just had word."
"Damn!" Vernon Demerest said. "Goddam!"
"Apparently," Gwen said, "a lot of passengers are on their way, but have
been held up-I guess because of the snow. Some have phoned in, and
Departure Control decided to allow them extra time."
Anson Harris asked, "Is boarding being delayed too?"
"Yes, Captain. The flight hasn't been announced. It won't be for another
half-hour, at least."
Harris shrugged. "Oh, well; we might as well relax." He moved toward the
flight deck.
Gwen volunteered, "I can bring you all coffee, if you
35
like.
"I'll get coffee in the terminal," Vernon Demerest said. He nodded to
Gwen. "Why don't you come with me?"
She hesitated. "Well, I could."
"Go ahead," Harris said. "One of the other girls can bring mine, and
there's plenty of time."
A minute or two later, Gwen walked beside Vernon Demerest, her heels
clicking as she kept pace with his strides down the Trans America
departure wing. They were heading for the main terminal concourse.
Demerest was thinking: the hour's delay might not be a bad tbing, after
all. Until this moment, with the essentiat business of Flight Two to
think about, he had pushed all thoughts of Gwen's pregnancy from his
mind. But, over coffee and a cigarette, there would be a chance to
continue the discussion they had begun ear-

lier. Perhaps, now, the subject which he bad not broached before-an

abortion-could be brought into the open.

8

Nervously, 1). 0. Guerrero lit another cigarette from the stub of his

previous one. Despite his efforts to control the motion of his bands, they
trembled visibly. He was agitated, tense, anxious. As he bad earlier,
while putting his dynamit,,– bomb together, be could feel rivulets of
perspiration on his face and beneath his shirt.
The cause of his distress was time-the time remaining between now and the
departure of Flight Two. It was running out, remorselessly, like sand
from an hourglass; and much-too much-of the sand was gone.
Guerrero was in a bus en route to the airport. Half an hour ago the bus
had entered the Kennedy Expressway, from which point, normally, there
would have been a swift, fifteen-minute ride to Lincoln International.
But the expressway, like every other highway in the state, was impeded
by the storm, and jammed with traffic. At moments the traffic was halted,
at other times merely inching along.
Before departure from downtown, the dozen or so bus passengers-all
destined for Flight Two-had been told of their flight's delay by one
hour. Even so, at the present rate of progress, it appeared as if it
might take another two hours, perhaps three, to get to the airport.
Others in the bus were worried, too.
Like D. 0. Guerrero, they had checked in at the Trans America downtown
terminal in the Loop. Then, they had been in plenty of time, but now, in
view of the

mounting delay, were wondering aloud whether Flight Two would wait for them

indefinitely, or not.
The bus driver was not encouraging. In reply to questions, he declared that
usually, if a bus from a downtown terminal was late, a flight was held
until the bus arrived. But when conditions got really bad, like tonight,
anything could happen. The airline might figure that the bus would be held
up for hours more-as it could beand that the flight should go. Also, the
driver added, judging by the few people in the bus, it looked as if most
passengers for Flight Two were out at the airport already. ThaL often
happened with international flights, he explained; relatives came to see
passengers off, and drove them out by car.
The discussion went back and forth across the bus, though D. 0. Guerrero,
his spindly body hunched into his seat, took no part in it. Most of the
other passengers appeared to be tourists, with the exception of a voluble
Italian family-a man and woman with several children –who were talking
animatedly in their own language.
"If I were you, folks, I wouldn't worry," the bus driver had announced a
few minutes earlier. "The traffic ahead looks as if it's loosenin' up some.
We might just make it."
So far, however, the speed of the bus had not increased.
D. 0. Guerrero bad a double seat section, three rows back from the driver,
to himself. The all-important attach6 case was held securely on his lap. He
eased forward, as he bad done several times already, straining to peer
ahead into the darkness beyond the bus; all he could see, through the twin
arcs cleared by the big, slapping windshield wipers, was what appeared to
be an endless string of vehicle lights, disappearing into the falling snow.
Despite his sweating, his pale, thin lips were dry; he moistened them with
his tongue.
For Guerrero, "just making it" to the airport in time for Flight Two would
simply not do. He needed an extra ten or fifteen minutes, at least, to buy
flight insurance. He cursed himself for not having gone out to the airport
sooner, and bought the flight insurance he needed in

plenty of time. In his original plan, purchasing the insurance at the last

minute, and thus minimizing any chance of inquiry, seemed a good idea. What
he had not foreseen was the kind of night this had turned out to bethough he
ought to have foreseen it, remembering the time of year. It was just that
kind of thing-overlooking some significant, variable factor-which had dogged
D. 0. Guerrero through his business enterprises, and time after time brought
grandiose schemes to naught. The trouble was, he realized, whenever he made
plans, he convinced himself that everything would go exactly as he hoped;
therefore he failed to allow for the unexpected. More to the point, he
thought bitterly, he never seemed able to learn from past experience.
He supposed that when he got to the airport-assurning Flight Two had not
already left-he could go to the Trans America flight counter and announce
himself as being present. Then he would insist on being allowed time to buy
flight insurance before the flight took off. But it would involve the one
thing he desperately wanted to avoid: drawing attention to himself, in the
same way that he had drawn attention already-and for the stupidest omission
he could possibly have made.
He had failed to bring any baggage, other than the small, slim attach6 case
in which he was carrying the dynamite bomb.
At the check-in counter downtown the ticket agent had asked, "Is that your
baggage, sir?" He pointed to a large pile of suitcases belonging to a man
in line behind.
"No." D. 0. Guerrero hesitated, then held up the small attacb6-briefcase.
"I . . . er. . . . don't have anything except this."
The agent's eyebrows went up. "No baggage for a trip to Rome, sir? You
really are traveling light." He motioned to the attach6 case. "Do you wish
to check that?"
"No, thank you." All D. 0. Guerrero wanted at that moment wai his airline
ticket, and to get away from the counter, and secure an inconspicuous seat
on the airport bus. But the agent glanced curiously at him a second time,
and Guerrero knew that, from this moment onward, he would be remembered. He
had stamped

himself indelibly on the ticket agent's memory-all because b,, forgot to

bring a suitcase, which he could so easily hav.,– done. Of course, the
reason he bad not done so was instinctive. D. 0. Guerrero knew-as others
did not-that Flight Two would never reach its destination; therefore no
baggage was necessary. But he ought to have had baggage, as a cover. Now,
at the inquiry which would inevitably follow the flight's loss, the fact
that one passenger-himself-had boarded without baggage, would be
remembered and commented on. It would underscore whatever other suspicions
about D. 0. Guerrero investigators might, by that time, have.
But if there were no wreckage, he reminded himself, what could they
prove?
Nothing! The flight insurance people would have to pay.
Would the bus never get to the airport?
The children from the Italian family were running noisily up and down the
aisle of the bus. A few seats back, the mother was still jabbering in
Italian to the husband; she held a baby which was crying lustily. Neither
the woman nor the man seemed aware of the baby's crying.
Guerrero's nerves were stretched and raw. He wanted to seize the baby and
throttle it; to sbout to the others, Shut up! Shut up!
Couldn't they sense? . . . Didn't the fools know that this was no time
for stupid chattering? . . . No time, when Guerrero's whole future-at
least, his family's future . . . the success of the plan so painstakingly
worked out . . . everything, everything, was predicated on getting to the
airport with time to spare.
One of the running children-a boy of five or six, with an attractive,
intelligent face-stumbled in the aisle and fell sideways into the empty
seat beside D. 0. Guerrero. In regaining his balance, the boy's hand went
out, striking the attach6 case still on Guerrero's lap. The case slipped
sideways and Guerrero grabbed it. He managed to stop it before it fell,
then turned to the child, his face contorted to a snarl, his hand raised
to strike.

Wide-eyeO,, the boy regarded him. He said softly,

"SCUSU,
With an erfort, Guerrero controlled himself. Others in the bus might be
waicbing. If he were not careful, be would draw attention to himself
again. Groping for some of the words he had picked up from Italians who
had worked for him on construction projects, he said awkwardly, "t troppo
rumorosa."
The child nodded gravely. "Si." He stood where he was.
"All right," Guerrero said. "That's all. Get lost! Se ne vada!"
"Si," the boy said again. His eyes were uncomfortably
direct, and ' ~or a moment Guerrero was reminded that
this child, and others, would be aboard Flight Two.
Well, it made no difference. There was no point in be
coming sentimental; nothing would change his intentions
now. Besides, when it happened, when he pulled the
string of the attach6 case and the airplane ripped apart,
everything would be over quickly, before anyone – espe
cially the children-had time to know.
The boy i~urned away, and went back in the bus to his mother.
At last!-the bus was moving faster . now it was speeding up! Ahead,
through the windshield, D. 0. Guerrero could see that the traffic had
thinned, other lights in front were moving quickly. They might … just
might . . . arrive at the airport in time for him to buy flight insurance
without any need to arouse attention. But it was going to be close. He
hoped the insurance booth would not be busy.
He notic,-d that the children from the Italian family had returned to
their seats, and he congratulated himself about not Mtracting attention
a moment ago. If he had struck the (hild-as he almost had-people would
have made a fusi. At least he had avoided that. It was still a pity that
h(. had got himself noticed when checking in, though when he thought
about it, he supposed that no irreparable harm bad been done.
Or had i-?
A new worry nagged him.

Supposing the ticket agent who had been curious about the absence of any

baggage remembered the incident again, after the bus bad gone. Guerrero
knew he had appeared nervous at the time; supposing the agent had
noticed, had later become suspicious. The agent would talk to someone
else, a super-visor perhaps, who might already have telephoned the
airport. Even at this moment, someone-the police?-might be waiting for
the bus to arrive; to interrogate D. 0. Guerrero; to open and inspect his
single, small attach6 case with the damning evidence inside. For the
first time Guerrero wondered what would happen if he were caught. It
would mean arrest, imprisonment. Then he thought: before he would allow
that to happen . . . if he were accosted, if exposure seemed imminent .
. . he would pull the loop of string on the outside of the case and blow
himself, along with everyone nearby, to pieces. His hand went out.
Beneath the attach6 case handle he touched the loop of string and held
it. It was reassuring . . . Now, for the moment, he would try to think
of something else.
He wondered if Inez had yet found his note.
She had.

Inez Guerrero came tiredly into the miserable 51st Street apartment, and

slipped off her shoes, which had been hurting, and her coat and kerchief,
which were soaked from melted snow. She was aware of a cold coming, and
an all-engulfing weariness. Her work as a waitress had been harder than
usual today, the customers meaner, the tips smaller. Besides, she was not
yet accustomed to it, which took a greater toll.
Two years ago, when the Guerreros lived comfortably in a congenial home
in the suburbs, Inez, though never beautiful, had been a
pleasant-appearing, well-preserved woman. Since then, ravages of time and
circumstance had come swiftly to her face, so that where once she seemed
younger than she was, now she looked considerably older. Tonight, if Inez
had been in a house of her own, she would have sought the solace of a hot
bath, which always seemed to relax her in times of trouble-

of which there had been plenty in the Guerreros' married life. Ahliough

there was a bathroom of sorts down the hall, which three apartments shared,
it was unheated and drafty, with old paint peeling, and a gas water heater
which had to be appeased with quarters. The thought of it defeated her. She
decided she would sit still for a while in the shabby living room, then go
to bed. She had no idea where her husband was.
It was some time before she noticed the note on the living-room table.

I won't be home for a few days. I'm going away. I expe(t to have some

good news soon which will sui prise you.

Few things surprised Inez where her husband was concerned; "ne had always

been unpredictable and, more recently, irrational. Good news would
certainly be a surprise, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that
there would be any. Inez bad watched too many of her husband's ambitious
schemes totter and collapse to believe in tho likelihood of one more
possibility succeeding.
But the first part of the note puzzled her. Where was D.O. going "for a few
days"? Equally mystifying: What did he intend to use for money? The night
before last the Guerreros pooled the last of the money they had in the
world. The total was twenty-two dollars and some cents. Besides the money,
they had only one thing left worth pawning; it belonged to Inez-her
mother's ring, and so far sne had resisted parting with it. It might have
to go soon.
Of the twenty-two dollars-odd, Inez bad taken fourteen, to use for food and
as a token payment toward the rent. She bad seen the desperation in D.O.'s
face as he pocketed the remaining eight dollars and small change.
Inez decided to stop puzzling, and to go to bed as she had planned. She was
too weary even to worry about how her children were faring, though she had
not heard from her sister in Cleveland-with whom the children were
staying-for more than a week. She turned out the

single light in the living room and went into the cramped, shabby bedroom.

She had trouble finding her nightgown. Some of the contents of the rickety
dressing chest seemed to have been moved around. Eventually she found the
nightgown in a drawer with three of D.O.'s shirts; they were the last he
had, so wherever he had gone, he had not taken a change of clothing. Under
one of the shirts a folded sheet of yellow paper caught her eye. She took
it out and opened it.
The yellow sheet was a printed form which had been filled in by typewriter;
what Inez was holding was a carbon copy. When she saw what it was, she sat
down, unbelieving, on the bed. To make sure she had not misunderstood, she
read the contents of the form again.
It was a time-payment contract between Trans America Airlines and D. 0.
"Buerrero"-the name, she noticed, was misspelled. The contract acknowledged
that "Buerrero" had received a round-trip ticket to Rome, economy class;
that he had made a down payment of forty-seven dollars, and hereby promised
to pay the balance of four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, plus interest,
in installments over twenty-four months.
It didn't make sense.
Inez stared dazedly at the yellow form. Within her mind, questions chased
one another.
Why did D.O. need an air ticket at all? And if a ticket, why to Rome? And
what about the money? He couldn't possibly pay the installments, though
that part, at least, was understandable. There had been plenty of other
obligations D. 0. Guerrero incurred that he couldn't meet; debts never
disturbed him, as they did Inez. But apart from the debt, where had the
forty-seven dollars down payment come from? The form acknowledged receipt;
the money had been paid. Yet two nights ago, D.O. declared that he had no
more money than they pooled, and whatever else he might do, Inez knew he
never Iii-, I to her.
Yet that forty-seven dollars came from somewhere. Where?
Suddenly, she remembered the ring; it was gold with

a single diamond in a platinum setting. Until a week or two ago, Inez wore

it regularly, but recently her hands had swollen and she took the ring off,
leaving it in a small box in one of the bedroom drawers. For the second time
tonight she searched the drawers. The box was there-empty. Obviously, to
get the forty-seven dollars, D.O. had pawned the ring.
Her first reaction was regret. To Inez, the ring had meant something; it
was a last tenuous link between herself and the past, her scattered family,
her dead mother whose memory she revered. More realistically: the ring,
though not exceptionally valuable, had been a last resort. While it was
there, there was the knowledge that however bad things became, the ring
would always provide a few days more of living. Now it was gone, and along
with it, the minor reassurance.
Yet knowing where the down payment came from for the airline ticket, still
provided no answer to the question-why'. Why an air journey? Why to Rome?
Still seated on the bed, Inez applied herself to thinking carefully. For
the moment, she ignored her tiredness.
Inez was not a highly intelligent woman. If she had been, probably she
would not have endured marriage to D. 0. Guerrero for almost twenty years;
and even now, if better equipped mentally, she would have been more than a
coffeehouse waitress at a paltry wage. But occasionally, through slow,
careful reasoning aided by instinct, Inez could reach right conclusions.
Especial.ly where her husband was concerned.
Now, instinct more than reason warned her that D. 0. Guerrero was in
trouble-more serious trouble than they had yet encountered. Two things
convinced her: his irrationality of late, and the length of his intended
journey; in the Guerrero's present circumstances, only some monumental,
desperate undertaking could require a trip to Rome. She went to the living
room and returned with the note, which she read again. Over the years there
had been many notes; Inez sensed that this one did not mean what it said.
Beyond that, her reasoning failed to go. But she had

the feeling, a conviction growing as each minute passed, that there must be

something, ought to be something, she should do.
It did not occur to Inez to abdicate entirely; to abandon D.O. to the
outcome of whatever new folly he might have begun. She was essentially a
simple soul with an uncomplicated nature. Eighteen years ago she accepted
D. 0. Guerrero "for better or worse." That it had turned out to be mostly
"worse" did not, as Inez saw it, change her responsibility as a wife.
Her cautious, measured reasoning continued. She supposed the first thing to
do was find out if D.O. had already left by air; if not, perhaps there was
time to stop him. Inez had no idea how much of a start D.O. had, or how
many hours ago his note to her was written. She looked again at the yellow
time-payment form; it said nothing about when the flight would be, or its
departure time, thOLIgh she could telephone the airline-Trans America. As
quickly as she could, Inez began putting on the clothes which, a few
minutes earlier, she had taken off.
Her outdoor shoes hurt her feet again, and her coat was still sodden and
uncomfortable as she went down the narrow stairs from the apartment to the
street. In the mean lower hallway, snow had blown under the outer door and
covered the bare boards of the floor. Outside, Inez saw, the snow was even
deeper than when she came in. The cold, bleak wind assaulted her as she
left the building's shelter, whipping more snow into her face.
There \vas no telephone in the Guerreros' apartment, and although Inez
could have used a pay phone in the lunch counter on the lower floor, she
wanted to avoid a meeting with the proprietor, who was also the building
landlord. He bad threatened eviction tomorrow if the Guerreros' arrears of
rent were not paid in full. That was something else which Inez bad pushed
from her mind tonight, and which-if D.O. failed to return by morning-she
would have to face alone.
A drugstore, with a pay phone, was a block and a

half away. Picking her way through deep snow on uncleared sidewalks, Inez

headed there.
The time was a quarter to ten.
The drugstore telephone was in use by two teen-age girls, and In,-z
waited almost ten minutes for it to be free. Then, when she dialed the
Trans America number, a recording informed her that all lines to
Reservations were busy, and would she please wait. She waited while the
recording repeated itself several times before a brisk woman's voice
declared that she was Miss Young, and could she help?
"Please," Inez said, "I want to ask about flights to Rome."
As if a button bad been pressed, Miss Young replied that Trans America
had direct non-stop flights from Lincoln International to Rome on
Tuesdays and Fridays; through New York there were connections daily, and
did the caller wish to make a reservation now?
"No," Inez said. "No, I'm not going. It's about my husband. Did you say
there was one on Fridays … a flight … tonight?"
"Yes, madam-our Flight Two, The Golden Argosy. It departs at ten o'clock
local time, except that tonight the flight has been delayed one hour, due
to weather conditions."
Inez could see the drugstore clock. By now, it was nearly five past ten.
She said quickly, "You mean the flight hasn't gone yet?"
"No, madam, not yet."
"Please . . ." As she often did, Inez found herself groping for words.
"Please, it's important for me to find out if my husband is on that
flight. His name is D. 0. Guerrero, and. . ."
"I'm soM,; we're not permitted to give out that information." Miss Young
was polite but firm.
"I don't think you understand, miss. It's my husband I'm asking al)out.
This is his wife."
"[ do unjerstand, Mrs. Guerrero, and I'm sorry; but it's a conipz.ny
rule."
Miss Youag, and others like her, were well drilled in

the rule and understood its reason. Many businessmen took secrctaries or

mistresses along on air trips, listing them as wives, to take advantage
of family plan fare reductions. In the past, a few suspicious, genuine
wives had checked up, causing trouble for the airlines' customers-the men.
Later, it was the men who complained bitterly about breaches of
confidence, with the result that airlines nowadays made a policy of not
disclosing passenger names.
Inez began, "Isn't there any way . .
"There really isn't."
"Oh, dear."
"Do I understand," Miss Young inquired, "that you think your husband
might be leaving on Flight Two, but you're not sure?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Then the only thing you might do, Mrs. Guerrero, is to go out to the
airport. Probably the flight hasn't boarded yet; so if your husband is
there, you could see him. Even if the flioht has boarded, they might help
you at the departure gate. But you'd have to hurry."
"All rieht," Inez said. "If that's the only thing, I suppose Id better
try." She had no idea how she would get to the airport-more than twenty
miles a.way-in less than aa hour, in the storm.
"Just a moment." Miss Young sounded hesitant, her voice more human, as
if some of Inez's distress had penetrated through the phones. "I really
shouldn't do this, Mrs. Guerrero, but I'll give you a little tip."
"Please. '
"At the airport, when you get to the departure gate, don't say you think
your husband is aboard. Say you know he's aboard and you'd like to speak
to him. If he isn't, you'll find out. If he is, it will make it easier
for the gate agent to tell you what you want to know."
"Thank you," Inez said. "Thank you very much."
"You're entirely welcome, madam." Miss Young was her mach~ne-like self
once more. "Good night, and thank you for calling Trans America."
Replacing the telephone, Inez remembered something she had noticed coming
in. A taxi was parked outside;

now she saw the driver. In a yellow, peaked cap, he was at the drugstore

soda fountain, in conversation with another man.
A taxi would be costly, but if she was to get to the airport by 1 t P.m.,
it was probably the only means.
Inez crossed to the soda fountain and touched the driver on the arm.
"Excuse me."
The cab driver turned. "Yeah, waddya want?" He had a mean, flabby face, and
needed a shave.
"I was wondering how much it would cost for a taxi to the airport."
The driver inspected her through narrowed, calculating eyes. "From here,
maybe nine, ten dollars on the meter."
Inez turned away. It was too much-more than half the small amount of money
she had remaining; and she was not even sure that D.O. would be on the
flight.
"Hey, you! Hold it!" The cabbie downed a Coke he had been drinking and
hurried after Inez. He caught her at the door. "How much dough ya got?"
"It isn't that." Inez shook her head. "It's just … it's more than I can
afford."
The cabbie snorted, "Suma you people think ya can get them kinda rides for
peanuts. 'S long drag out there."
"Yes, I know."
"Why yo u wanna go? Whyn't yer get th' bus?"
"It's important; I have to be there . . . ought to be there … by eleven
o'clock."
"Here," the cab driver said, "maybe it's bargain night. I'll take yer for
seven, even."
"Well . ~ ." Inez still hesitated. Seven dollars was most of what she had
planned to offer the apartment landlord tomorrow in an attempt to appease
him about the arrears of rent. She would have no wages from the coffee
house until the end of next week.
The cab driver said impatiently, " 'S th' best offer you'll get. You wanna
take it, or not?"
"Yes," Inez said. "Yes, I'll take it."
"Okay, Jcssgo."
While Inez climbed into the cab unaided, the driver

smirked a~, he used a whisk broom to clear snow from the windsliield and

windows. When Inez approached him in the drugstore, he was already off
duty and, since he lived near the airport, was about to dead-head home.
Now, he had a fare. Also, he lied in declaring the meter fare to th,.~
airport to be nine or ten dollars; it was actually less than seven. But
the lie made it possible to concoct what his passenger believed to be a
deal, so now he could drive with his flag up, and pocket the seven dollars
foi himself. High-flagging was illegal, but no cop, the diiver reasoned,
would be likely to spot him on a lousy ni,)ht like this.
Thus, the cab driver thought smugly, in a single move he had managed to
cheat both this stupid old crone of a passenger and his son-of-a-bitch
employer.
As they moved off, Inez asked anxiously, "Are you sure you can get there
by eleven o'clock?"
Over his shoulder the driver snarled, "I said so, didn't 1, so lemme do
the drivin'."
Just the same, he conceded to himself, he was not certain that they
would. The roads were bad, the other traffic slow. They might just make
it, but it was going to be close.

Th , irty-five minutes later, the taxi containing Inez was

crawling tediously along the snowbound, still-plugged
Kennedy Expressway. Sitting tensely on the back seat,
her fingers working nervously, Inez was wondering how
much longer the journey would last.
At the same moment, the airport bus containing the contingenr. of Flight
Two passengers swung on to the departure ramp entrance at Lincoln
International. The bus, after shaking itself free from the slow-moving
traffic newer town, had continued to make good time; now, the c~ock above
the terminal showed a quarter to eleven.
As the bus stopped, D. 0. Guerrero was tirst to alight.

9

"Bring along that portable public address system," Elliott Freem,~jitle

commanded. "We may be glad of it."
The Meadowood community meeting in the Sunday school hall of Meadowood
First Baptist Church was sizzling with excitement which Lawyer Freemantle
had skillfully generated. The meeting was also about to move on to
Lincoln International Airport.
"Don't hand me any bilgewater about it being too late, or not wanting to
go," Elliott Freemantle had exhorted his audience of six hundred a few
minutes earlier. He stood before them confidently, impeccable as ever in
his ,-Iegant Blue Spruce suit and gleaming alligator shoes; not a single
barber-styled hair was out of place, and be radiated confidence. The
meeting was enthusiastically with him now, and the rougher tongued he
was, it seemed, the more they liked him.
He continued, "And don't let's have a lot of footling excuses for not
going. I don't want to hear about babysitters, mothers-in-law left alone,
or stews on the stove simmering, because I couldn't care less; neither-at
this moment-should you. If your car's stuck in the snow, leave it there
and ride in someone else's. The point is: I'm going to the airport
tonight, on your behalf, to make myself obnoxious." Ile paused as another
aircraft thundered overhead. "By God!-it's time somebody did." The last
remark had caused applause and laughter.
"I need your support, and I want you there-all of you. Now I'll ask you
a plain, straight question: Are you coming?"
The halt resounded to a roar of, "Yes!" People were on their feet,
cheering.
"All right," Freemantle said, and the hall had hushed. "Let's get a few
things clear before we go."
He had ilready told them, he pointed out, that legal proceedings must be
the basis of any action to gain relief for Meadowood community from its
over-

whelmine airport noise. Such legal proceedings, however, sh~)uld not be

the kind which nobody noticed, or which took place in some out-of-the-way,
unpeopled courtroom. Instead, they must be conducted in the spotlight of
public attention and public sympathy.
"How do we get that kind of attention and sympathy?" Lawyer Freemantle
paused, then answered his own question.
"We get it by making our point of view known in such a way that it
becomes newsworthy. Then, and only then, can the attention-getting
media-press, radio, and television-feature our viewpoint prominently,
in the kind of way we want."
The press were good friends, he declared. "We do not ask them to share
our point of view, merely to report it fairly, which-in my
experience-they always do. But it helps out reporter friends if a cause
can engender some drama; that way, they get a better story."
The three reporters at the press table were grinning as Freemantle added,
"We'll see if we can stage some drama for them tonight."
While E lliott Freemantle was speaking, he was also
observing shrewdly the progress of the legal forms, re
taining himself as legal counsel for individual home
owners, which were now circulating through the hall.
Many of the forms-at least a hundred, he estimated
had been signed and passed forward. He had watched
ballpoint pens appear, husbands and wives bend over
the documents to sign jointly, thus committing each
family to payment of a hundred dollars. Lawyer Free
mantle did some happy calculation: a hundred com
pleted retainers meant ten thousand dollars for himself.
Not a bad fee for-so far-an evening's work, and in
the end the total fee would be a great deal more.
While the forms were still circulating, he decided, he would continue
talking for a few minutes longer.
As to what was going to happen at the airport tonight, he instructed his
listeners, they were to leave that to him. He hoped there would be a
confrontation with the airport's management; in any case, he intended to
stage a demonstration-within the airport terminalwhich people would
remember.

"All I ask is that you stay together and that you raise your voices only

when I tell you."
Emphatically, he cautioned, there would be no disorder. No one must be able
to say next day that the Meadowood anti-noise delegation violated any law.
"Of course"-Freemantle smiled suggestively-"we may get in the way and cause
some inconvenience; I understand that the airport is extremely busy
tonight. But we can't help that."
There was laughter again. He sensed that people were ready to go.
Still another aircraft reverberated overhead, and he waited until the sound
had died.
"Very we'll Let us be on our way!" Lawyer Freemantle raised his hands like
a jet-age Moses, and mixquoted: "For I have promises to keep, with much ado
before I sleep."
The laughter changed to renewed cheering, and people began moving toward
the doors.
It was then that he had noticed the portable p.a. system, borrowed from the
Meadowood First Baptist Church, and instructed that it be brought along.
Floyd Zanetta, the meeting's chairman-virtually ignored since Elliott
Freemantle eclipsed him in attention-hurried to comply.
Freemantle himself was stuffing signed retainer forms into his briefcase.
A quick count showed that he had underestimated earlier-there were over a
hundred and sixty forms, or more than sixteen thousand dollars' worth of
collectible fees. In addition, many who had come forward to shake his hand
within the past few minutes, assured him they would mail their own forms,
along with checks, in the morning. Lawyer Freemantle glowed.
He had no real plan as to what would happen at the airport, any more than
he had arrived tonight with a fixed idea about how to take over this
meeting. Elliott Freemantle disliked fixed ideas. He preferred to impro-
vise, to get situations rolling, then direct them this way or that, to his
own advantage. His freewheeling methods had worked once already this
evening; he saw no reason why they should not do so again.

The ma~i thing was to keep these Meadowood homeowners convinced that they

had a dynamic leader who would eventually produce results. Furthermore,
they must remain convinced until the four quarterly payments, which the
legal retainer agreements called for, were made. After that, when Elliott
Freemantle had his money in the bank, the opinions wore less important.
So he had to keep this situation lively, he reasoned, for ten or eleven
months-and he would do it. He would give these people all the dynamism
they could want. There would be need for some more meetings and
demonstrations like tonight's because those made news. Too often, court
proceedings didn't. Despite what he had said a few minutes ago about
legal proceedings being a base, any sessions in court were likely to be
unspectacular and possibly unprofitable. Of course, he would do his best
to introduce some histrionics, though quite a few judges nowadays were
wise to Lawyer Freemantle's attention-creating tactics, and curtailed
them sternly.
But there were no real problems, providing he remembered-as he always
did in these affairs-that the most important factor was the care and
feeding of Elliott Freemantle.
He could see one of the reporters, Tomlinson of the Tribune, using a pay
phone just outside the hall; another reporter was nearby. Good! It meant
that downtown city desks were being alerted, and would cover whatever
happened at the airport. There would also, if earlier arrangements
Freemantle had made worked out, be some TV coverage, too.
The crowd was thinning. Time to go!

10

Near the airport's floodlighted main entrance, the flashing red beacon of

the state police patrol car died.

The patrol car, which had preceded Joe Patroni from the site of the

wrecked tractor– trailer, slowed, and the state trooper at the wheel
pulled over to the curb, waving the TWA maintenance chief past. Patroni
accelerated. As his Buick Wildcat swept by, Patroni waved his cigar in
salutation and honked his hom twice.
Although the last stage of Joe Patroni's journey had been accomplished
with speed, over-all it had taken more than three hours to cover a
distance-from his home to the airport-which normally took forty minutes.
Now, he hoped, he could make good some of the lost time.
Fighting the snow and slippery road surface, he cut swiftly through the
stream of terminal-bound traffic and swung onto a side road to the
airport's hangar area. At a sign, "TWA Maintenance," he wheeled the Buick
sharply right. A few hundred yards farther on, the airline's maintenance
hangar loomed towering and massive. The main doors were open; he drove
directly in.
Inside the hangar a radio-equipped pickup truck, with driver, was
waiting; it would take Patroni onto the airfield-to the miied
A6reo-Mexican jet, still obstructing runway three zero. Stepping from his
car, the maintenance chief paused only long enough to relight his cigar