Airport

the truck cab. He instructed the driver, "Okay, son, push that needle
round the dial."
The truck raced away, Patroni obtaining radio clearance from the tower
as they went. Once away from the lighted hangar area, the driver stayed
close to taxi lights, the only guide-in the white-tinted gloom-to where
paved surfaces began and ended. On instructions from the tower they
halted briefly near a runway while a DC-9 of Delta Air Lines landed in
a flurry of snow and rolled by with a thunder of reversed jet thrust. The
ground controller cleared them across the runway, then added, "Is that
Joe Patroni?"
"Yep.11
There was an interval while the controller dealt with other traffic,
then: "Ground control to Patroni. We have a message from the airport
manager's office. Do you read?"

"This's Patroni. Go ahead."
"Message begins: Joe, I'll bet you a box of cigars against a pair of ball
tickets that you can't get that stuck airplane clear of three zero
tonight, and I'd like you to win. Signed, Mel Bakersfeld. End of
message."
Joe Patroni chuckled as he depressed the transmit button. "Patroni to
ground control. Tell him he's on."
Replacing the radio mike, he urged the truck driver, "Keep her moving,
son. Now I got me an incentive."
At the blocked intersection of runway three zero, the A6reo-Mexican
maintenance foreman, Ingram-whom Mel Bakersfeld had talked with
earlier-approached the pickup as it stopped. The foreman was still
huddled into a parka, shielding his face as best he could from the biting
wind and snow.
Joe Patroni bit off the end of a fresh cigar, though this time without
lighting it, and descended from the truck cab. On the way out from the
hangar he had changed from the overshoes he had been wearing into heavy
fleece-lined boots; high as the boots were, the deep snow came over them.
Patroni pulled his own parka around him and nodded to Ingram. The two men
knew each other slightly.
"Okay," Patroni said; he had to shout to make himself heard above the
wind. "Gimme the poop."
As Ingram made his report, the wings and fuselage of the stalled Boeing
707 loomed above them both, like an immense ghostly albatross. Beneath
the big jet's belly a red hazard light still winked rhythmically, and the
collection of trucks and service vehicles, including a crew bus and
roaring power cart, remained clustered on the taxiway side of the
aircraft.
The A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman summarized what had been done
already: the removal of passengers, and the first abortive attempt to get
the airplane moving under its own power. Afterward, he informed Joe
Patroni, as much weight had been taken off as possible-freight, mail,
baggage, with most of the fuel load being sucked out by tankers. Then
there had been a second attempt to blast the airplane out, again with its
own jets, which also ended in failure.
Chewing his cigar instead of smoking it-one of Pa-

troni's rare concessions to fire precaution, since the smell of ilviation
kerosene was strong-the TWA maintenance chief moved closer to the
aircraft. Ingram followed, and the two were joined by several ground
crewmen who emerged from the shelter of the crew bus. As Patroni surveyed
the scene, one of the crewmen switched on portable floodlights which were
rigged in a semicircle in front of the airplane's nose. The lights
revealed that the main landing gear was partially out of sight, embedded
in a covering of black mud beneath snow. The aircraft had stuck in an area
which was normally grass-covered, a few yards off runway three zero, near
an intersecting taxiway-the taxiway which the A6.reo-Mexican pilot had
missed in the dark and swirling sil,-,)w. It was sheer bad luck, Patroni
realized, that at that point the ground must have been so waterlogged
that. not even three days of snow and freezing temperatures had been
sufficient to harden it. As a result, the 1wo attempts to blast the
airplane free with its own power– had merely succeeded in settling it
deeper. Now, nacelles of the four jet engines beneath the wings were
uncomfortably close to ground level.
Ignoring the snow, which swirled about him Eke a scene from South with
Scott, Patroni considered, calculating the possibilities of success.
There was still a worthwhile chance, he decided, of getting the airplane
out by use of its own engine power. It would be the fastest way, if it
could be done. If not, they would have to employ giant lifting
bags-eleven altogether, made of nylon fabric-placed under wings and
fusela,ge, and inflated by pneumatic blowers. When the bags were in
place, heavy-duty jacks would be used to raise the aircraft's wheels,
then a solid floor built under them. But the process would be long,
difficult, and wearying. Joe Patroni hoped it could be avoided.
He announced, "We gotta dig deep and wide in front of the gear. I want
two six-foot-wide trenches down to where the wheels are now. Coming
forward from the wheels, we'll level the trenches at first, then slope
'ern up gradually." He swung to Ingram. "That's a lot of digging.11
The foreman nodded. "Sure is."

"When we've finished that part, we'll start the engines and pull full
power with all four." Patroni motioned to the stalled, silent aircraft.
"That should get her moving forward. When she's rolling. and up the slope
of the trenches, we'll swing her this way." Stomping with the heavy boots
he bad put on in the truck, he traced an elliptical path through the snow
between the soft ground and the taxiway paved surface. "Another
thing-let's lay big timbers, as many as we can, in front of the wheels.
You got any at all?"
"Some," Ingram said. "In one of the trucks."
"Unload 'em, and send your driver around the air-port to round up as many
as he can. Try all the airlines, and airport maintenance."
The ground crewmen nearest Patroni and Ingram hailed others, who began
scrambling from the crew bus. Two of the men rolled back a snow-covered
tarpaulin on a truck containing tools and shovels. The shovels were
passed around among figures, moving and shadowy outside the semicircle
of bright lights. The blowing snow, at times, made it difficult for the
men to see each other. They waited for orders to begin.
A boarding ramp, leading to the forward cabin door of the 707, had been
left in place. Patroni pointed to it. "Are the flyboys still aboard?"
Ingram grunted. "They're aboard. The goddarn captain and first officer."
Patroni looked at him sharply. "They been giving you trouble?"
"It wasn't what they gave me," Ingram said sourly, "it's what they
wouldn't. When I got here, I wanted 'em to pull full power, the way you
just said. If they'd done it the first time. I reckon she'd have come
out; but they didn't have the guts, which is why we got in deeper. The
captain's made one big screwup tonight, and knows it. Now he's scared
stiff of standing the ship on its nose."
Joe Patroni grinned. "If I were him, I might feel the same way." He had
chewed his cigar to shreds; he threw it into the snow and reached inside
his parka for another. "Ill talk to the captain later. Is the interpbone
rigged?"
"Yeah.,,

"Call the flight deck, then. Tell 'em we're working, and I'll be up there
soon."
"Right." As he moved closer to the aircraft, Ingram called to the twenty
or so assembled ground crewmen, "Okay, you guys; let's get digging!"
Joe Paironi seized a shovel himself and, within minutes, the group was
shifting mud, earth, and snow.
When he had used the fuselage interphone to speak to the pilots iri their
cockpit high above, Ingram-with the aid of a riechanic-began groping
through icy mud, with cold numbed hands, to lay the first of the timbers
in front of the aircraft's wheels.
Across the airfield occasionally, as the snow gusted and limits of
visibility changed, the lights of aircraft taking off and landing could
be seen, and the whinepitched roar of jet engines was carried on the wind
to the ears of the men working. But close alongside, runway thn.-e zero
remained silent and deserted.
Joe Patroni calculated: It would probably be an hour before the digging
would be complete and the Boeing 707's engines could be started in an
attempt to taxi the big airliner out. Meanwhile, the men now excavating
the twin trenches, which were beginning to take shape, would have to be
relieved in shifts, to warm themselves in the crew bus, still parked on
the taxiway.
It was ten-thirty now. With luck, he thought, he might be home in
bed-with Marie-soon after mid-
L,
night.
To bring the prospect nearer, also to keep warm, Patroni thrcw himself
even harder into shoveling.

11

In the Clot d Captain's Coffee Shop, Captain Vernon
Demerest oi-dered tea for Gwen, black coffee for him
self. Coffee-as it was supposed to do-helped keep

him alert; lie would probably down a dozen more cups between here and
Rome. Although Captain Harris would be doing most of the flying of Flight
Two tonight, Demerest had no intention of relaxing mentally. In the air,
he rarely did. He was aware, as were most veteran pilots, that aviators
who died in their beds of old age were those who throughout their careers
had been ready to cope insrantly with the unexpected.
"We're both unusually quiet," Gwen said in her gentle English voice. "We
scarcely said a word coming into the terminal."
It was just a few minutes since they left the departure concourse, after
announcement of the one hour flight delay. They had managed to snare a
booth near the rear of the coffee shop, and now Gwen was looking into the
mirror of her compact, patting her hair into place where it flowed
superbly from beneath the smart Trans America stewardess cap. Her dark,
expressive eyes switched briefly from the mirror to Vernon Demerest's f
ace.
"I wasn't talking," Demerest said, "because I've been thinking; that's
all."
Gwen moistened her lips, though not applying lipstick –airlines had
strict rules against stewardesses applying make-up in public. In any
case, Gwen used very little; her complexion was the milk and roses kind
which so many English girls seemed born with.
"Thinking about what? Your traumatic experiencethe announcement we're to
be parents?" Gwen smiled mischievously, then recited, "Captain Vernon
Waldo Demerest and Miss Gwendolyn Aline Meighen announce the approaching
arrival of their first child, a … what? . . . 'We don't know, do we?
We won't for another seven months. Oh well, it isn't long to wait."
He remained silent while their coffee and tea was set before them, then
protested, "For God's sake, Gwen, let's be serious about this."
"Why should we be? Especially if I'm not. After all, if anyone'3
worrying, it ought to be me."
He was tbout to object again when Gwen reached for his hand under the
table. Her expression changed to

sympathy. "I'm sorry. I suppose it really is a bit shattering-for both of
us.'"
It was the opening Demerest had been waiting for. He said carefully, "It
needn't be shattering. What's more, we don't have to be parents unless we
choose to be. 11

"Well," Gwen said matter-of-factly, "I was wondering when you'd get around
to it." She snapped her compact closed. and put it away. "You almost did in
the car, didn't vou? Fben thought better of it."
"Tho~tgnt better of what?"
"Oh really, Vernon! Why pretend? We both know perfectly w(,,Il what it is
you're talking about. You want me to have an abortion. You've been thinking
about it ever since I told you I was pregnant. Well, haven't you?"
He nodded reluctantly. "Yes." He still found Gwen's directness
disconcerting.
"What's the matter? Did you think I'd never heard about abortions before?"
Demerest. glanced over his shoulder, wondering if they could be overheard,
but the clatter of the coffee shop, the buzz of conversation generally,
were all-pervading.
"I wasn't sure how you'd feel."
"I'm not sure either." It was Gwen's turn to be serious. She was looking
down at her hands, the long slender fingers he admired so much now clasped
in front of her. "I've thought about it. I still don't know."
He felt encouraged. At least there was no slammed door, no blank refusal.
He tried to make himself the voice of reason. "It's really the only
sensible thing to do. Maybe in some ways it's unpleasant to think of, but
at least it's over quickly, and if it's done properly, therapeutically,
there's no danger involved, no fear of complications."
"I know," Gwen said. "It's all terribly simple. Now you have it; now you
don't." She looked at him directly. "Right?"
"Right."

He sipped his coffee. Perhaps this was going to be easier than he had
thought.
"Vernon," Gwen said softly, "have you considered that what's inside me is
a human being; that it's alive, a person-even now? We made love. It's us,
you and me; a part of us." Her eyes, more troubled than he had yet seen
them, searched his face for a response.
He said emphatically, his voice deliberately harsh, "That isn't true. A
fetus at this stage is not a human being; nor is it a person, not yet. It
could be later, but it isn't now. It doesn't have life or breath or
feeling. An abortion-particularly this soon-isn't the same as taking a
human life."
Gwen reacted with the same quick temper she had shown in the car on their
way to the airport. "You mean it might not be such a good thing later on?
If we waited, then had an abortion, it might not be so ethical when the
baby wits perfectly formed, its fingers and toes all there. To kill it then
might be a little worse than now. Is that it, Vernon?"
Dernerest shook his head. "I didn't say that."
"But you implied it."
"If I did, I didn't mean to. In any case, you're twisting words around."
Gwen sighed. "I'm being womanly."
"No one's more entitled to be." He smiled; his eyes moved over her. The
thought of Naples, with Gwen … a few hours from now … still excited
him.
"I do love you, Vernon. I really do."
Under the table he retrieved her hand. "I know. It's why this is hard for
us both."
"The thing is," Gwen said slowly, as if thinking aloud, "I've never
conceived a child before, and until it happens a woman always wonders if
she can. When you find out, as I have, that the answer's yes, in a way it's
a gift, a feeling … that only a woman knows … that's great and
wonderful. Then suddenly in our kind of situation, you're faced with ending
it all, of squandering what was given." Her eyes were misty. "Do you under-
stand, Vernon? Really understand?"
He answered gently, "Yes, I think so."

"The difference between you and me is that you've had a child."
He shook his head. "I've no children. Sarah and I … 1~
"Not in your marriage. But there was a child; you told me so. A little
girl; the one from the 3-PPP Program"-Gwen gave the ghost of a smile-"who
was adopted. Now, whatever happens there's always someone, somewhere,
that's you again."
He remained silent.
Gwen asked, "Do you ever think about her? Don't you ever wonder where she
is, what she's like?"
There was no reason to lie. "Yes," he said. "Sometimes I do."
"You've no means of finding out?"
He shook his head. He had once inquired, but was told that when an adoption
was sealed, they threw away the files. There was no way to know-ever.
Gwen drank from her teacup. Over its rim she surveyed the crowded coffee
shop. He sensed that her composure had returned; the trace of tears was
gone.
She said with a smile, "Oh dear, what a lot of trouble I'm causing you."
He answered, and meant it: "It isn't my worrying that matters. It's what's
best for you."
"Well, I suppose in the end IT do what's sensible. I'll have an abortion.
I just have to think it through, talk it out, first."
"When you're ready, I'll help. But we shouldn't lose much time."
"I suppose not."
"Look, Gwen," he assured her, "the whole thing is fast, and I promise you
it'll be medically safe." He told her about Sweden; that he would pay
whatever the clinic cost; that the airline would cooperate in getting her
there.
She acknowledged, "I'll make up my mind, for sure, before we get back from
this trip."
He picked up their check, and they rose to leave. It was nearing time for
Gwen to be on hand to greet passengers boarding Flight Two.

As they left the coffee shop, she said, "I guess I'm pretty lucky you're
the way you are. Some men would have walked away and left me."
"I won't leave you."
But he would leave her; be knew that now. When Naples and the abortion
were over, he would finish with Gwen, break off their affair-as
considerately as he could, but completely and definitely just the same.
It would not be too difficult. There might be an uncomfortable moment or
two when Gwen learned of his intention, but she was not the kind to make
a fuss; she had demonstrated that already. In any event, he could handle
the situation, which would not be a new one. Vernon Dernerest had
disentangled himself successfully from amorous affairs before.
It was true that this time there was a difference. No one before had ever
had quite the same effect on him as Gwen. No other woman had stirred him
quite so deeply. No one else-at least, whom he remembered-had caused him
to enjoy her company, just being with her, quite so much. Parting, for
himself, would not be easy, and he knew he would be tempted, later on,
to change his mind.
But he would not. Through all his life so far, once he had decided on a
course of action, Vernon Dernerest had seen it through. Seff-discipline
was a habit he enforced.
Besides, commonsense told him that if he did not break with Gwen soon,
the time might come when he could not, when-self-discipline or not-he
could never bring himself to give her up. If that happened, it would
entail a need for permanence and, along with that, the kind of
catastrophic upheaval-marital, financial, emotional-which he was
determined to avoid. Ten or fifteen years ago, maybe; not now.
He touched Gwen's arm. "You go on. IT follow in a minute."
Ahead of them, as the crowds in the central concourse parted briefly, he
had observed Mel Bakersfeld. Vernon Dernerest had no particular objection
to being

seen with Gwen; just the same, there was no sense in advertising their
relationship around the family.
His brother-in-law, he noticed, was talking earnestly with Lieutenant Ned
Ordway, the efficient, amiable Negro who commanded the airport police
detachment. Perhaps Mol would be too absorbed to notice his sister's
husband, which was perfectly all right with Demerest, who had Do
particular wish for a meeting, though at the same time fie had no
intention of avoiding one.
Gwen disappeared into the crowd; his last glimpse of her was of shapely,
nylon-sheathed legs, and ankles equally as attractive and proportionate.
0 Sole Mio … hurry up!
Damn! Mel Bakersfeld had seen him.

"I was looking for you," Lieutenant Ordway had told Mel a few minutes
earlier. "I've just heard we're having visitors-several hundred."
Tonight the airport police chief was in uniform; a taU, striking figure
who looked like an African emperor, though for one so big, he spoke with
surprising softness.
"We already have visitors." Mel glanced around the crowded, bustling
concourse. He had been passing through on the way to his office on the
executive mezzanine. "Not hundreds; thousands."
"I don't mean passengers," Ordway said. "The ones I'm talking about may
cause us more trouble."
He told Mel about the Meadowood mass meeting to protest airport noise;
now the meeting had adjourned and most of its members were on their way
to the airport. Lieutenant Ordway had learned about the meeting, and its
intended follow-up, from a TV news crew which had requested permission
to set up cameras inside the terminal. After talking with the TV people,
Ordway telephoned a friend on the Tribune city desk downtown, who read
him the gist of a news story which a reporter at the original meeting had
just phoned in.
"Hell!" Mel grumbled. "Of all the nights to choosel As if we don't have
enough trouble already."
"I guess that's the idea; they'll get noticed more that way. But I
thought you'd better be warned because

they'll probably want to see you, and maybe someone from the F AA."
Mel said sourly, "The FAA goes underground when they bear of something like
t1fis. They never come out until the all clear's sounded."
"How about you?" The policeman grinned. "You plan to start tunneling?"
"No. You can tell them I'll meet a delegation of half a dozen, though even
that's a waste of time tonight. There's nothing I can do."
"You realize," Ordway said, "that providing they don't create a disturbance
or damage property, there's nothing I can do legally to keep the rest of
them out."
"Yes, I realize it, but I'm not going to talk to a mob, though just the
same, let's not look for trouble. Even if we get pushed around a little,
make sure we don't do any pushing ourselves unless we have to. Remember
that the press will be here, and I don't want to create any martyrs."
"I already warned my men. They'll make with the jokes and save the
jujitsu."
"Good!"
Mel had confidence in Ned Ordway. The policing of Lincoln International was
handled by a self-administering detachment of the city force, and
Lieutenant Ordway represented the best type of career policeman. He had
been in cbarge of the airport police detail a year, and would probably move
on to a more important assignment downtown soon. Mel would be sorry to see
him go.
"Apart from this Meadowood thing," Mel inquired, "bow's everything else
been?" He was aware that Ordway's force of a hundred policemen, like most
others at the airport, had done extra hours of duty since the storm began.
"Mostly routine. More drunks than usual, and a couple of fist fights. But
that figures because of all the flight delays and your busy bars."
Mel grinned. "Don't knock the bars. The airport takes a percentage from
every drink, and we need the revenue. "

"So do airlines, I guess. At least judging by the passengers th(,y try
to sober up, so they can put them aboard. I have my usual beef about
that."
"Coffee?"
"Right. The moment a passenger in his cups shows up at an airline
check-in counter, somebody from passenger relations gets assigned to pour
coffee into him. Airlines never seem to learn that when the coffee's in,
all you have is a wide-awake drunk. Mostly, that's when they call us."
"You can handle it."
Ordway's men, Mel was aware, were expert at dealing with airport drunks,
who were rarely charged unless they became obstreperous. Mostly they were
salesmen and businessmen from out of town, sometimes exhausted after a
grueling, competitive week, whom a few drinks on the way home hit hard.
If flight crews wouldn't allow them aboard-and captains, who had the last
word on such matters, were usually adamant about it-the drunks were
escorted to the police detention building and left to sober up. Later,
they were allowed to go-usually sheepishly.
"Oh, there is one thing," the police chief said. "The parking lot people
think we have several more dumped cars. In this weather it's hard to be
sure, but we'll check it out as soon as we can."
Mel grimaced. Worthless cars abandoned on parking lots were currently a
plague at every big city airport. Nowadays, when an old jalopy became
useless, it was surprisingly hard to get rid of it. Scrap and salvage
dealers were jammed to the limits of their yards and wanted no
more-unless car owners paid. So an owner was faced with the alternatives
of paying for disposal, renting storage, or finding a place to abandon
his vehicle where it could not be traced back to him. Airports had become
obvious dumping grounds.
The old cars were driven into airport parking lots, then licerse plates
and other obvious identification quietly removed. Engine serial numbers
could not be removed, of course, but the time and trouble involved in
tracing t1wra was never worth while. It was simpler for

the airport to do what the ex-owner would not-pay for the car to he taken
away and junked, and as quickly as possible sitice it was occupying revenue
parking space. Recently, at Lincoln International, the monthly bill for old
car disposal had become formidable.
Through the shifting throng in the concourse, Mel caught sight of Captain
Vernon Demerest.
"Aside from that," Ordway said genially, "we're in great shape for your
Meadowood visitors. I'll let you know when they get here." With a friendly
nod, the policeman moved on.
Vernon Demerest-in Trans America uniform, his bearing confident as
usual-was coming Mel's way. Mel felt a surge of irritation, remembering the
adverse snow committee report which he had heard about, but still hadn't
seen.
Demerest seemed disinclined to stop until Mel said, "Good eveiiing,
Vernon."
"Hi." The tone was indifferent.
"I hear that you're an authority, now, on snow clearance."
"You don't have to be an authority," Vernon Demerest said brusquely, "to
know when there's a lousy job being done."
Mel made an effort to keep his tone moderate. "Have you any idea how much
snow there's been?"
"Probably better than you. Part of my job is studying weather reports."
"Then you're aware we've had ten inches of snow on the airport in the past
twenty-four hours; to say nothing of what was there already."
Dernerest shrugged. "So clear it."
"It's what we're doing."
"Goddamned inefficiently."
"The maximum recorded snowfall here-ever," Mel persisted, "was twelve
inches in the same period. That was an intmelation, and everything closed
down. This time we've come near to it, but we haven't closed. We've fou-1ht
to stay open, and we've managed it. There isn't an airport anywhere that
could have coped better

than we have with this storm. We've had every piece of snow-moving
machinery manned around the clock."
"Maybe you haven't got enough machinery."
"Good God, Vernon! Nobody has enough equipment for the kind of storm
we've had these past three days. Anybody could use more, but you don't
buy snowclearing machinery for occasional maximum situations –not if
you've any economic sense. You buy for optimums, then when an emergency
hits, you use everything you have, deploying it to best advantage. That's
what my men have been doing, and they've done damned well! "
"Okay," Demerest said, "you have your opinion, I have mine. I happen to
think you've done an incompetent job. I've said so in my report."
"I thought it was a committee report. Or did you elbow the others out so
you could take a personal stab at me?"
"How the committee works is our business. The report is what matters.
You'll get your copy tomorrow."
"Thanks a lot." His brother-in-law, Mel noticed, had not bothered to deny
that the report was directed personally. Mel went on, "Whatever it is
you've written won't change anything, but if it gives you satisfaction,
it'll have a nuisance value. Tomorrow I'll have to waste time explaining
how ignorant-in some areas-you really are."
Mel had spoken heatedly, not bothering to conceal his anger, and for the
first time Demerest grinned. "Got under your skin a little, eh? Well,
that's too bad about the nuisance value and your precious time. I'll re-
member it tomorrow while I'm enjoying Italian sunshine." Still grinning,
he walked away.
He had not gone more than a few yards when the grin changed to a scowl.
The cause of Captain Demerest's displeasure was the central lobby
insurance booth-tonight, clearly doing a brisk business. It was a
reminder that Demerest's victory overr Mel Bakersfeld had been picayune,
a pinprick only. A week from now, the adverse snow committee report would
be forgotten, but the insurance

counter would still be here. So the real victory was still with his smooth,
smug brother-in-law, who had defeated Demerest's arguments in front of the
Board of Airport Commissioners, and made him look a fool.
Behind the insurance counters two young girls-one of them the big-breasted
blonde-were rapidly writing policies for applicants, while another half
dozen people waited in line. Most of those waiting were holding cash in
their hands-representing more quick profits for the insurance companies,
Demerest reflected sourly-and he had no doubt the automatic vending
machines in various locations in the terminal were just as busy.
He wondered if any of his own Flight Two passengers-to-be were among those
in line. He was tempted to inquire and, if so, do some proselytizing of his
own; but he decided not. Vernon Demerest had tried the same thing once
before-urging people at an insurance counter not to buy airport flight
insurance, and telling them why; and afterward there bad been complaints,
resulting in a sharply worded reprimand to him from Trans America
management. Though airlines did not like airport insurance vending any more
than aircrews did, the airlines were subject to differing pressures which
forced them to stay neutral. For one thing, airport managements claimed
they needed the insurance companies' revenue; if they didn't get it from
that source, they pointed out, maybe the airlines would have to make up the
difference in higher landing fees. For another, airlines were not eager to
offend passengers, who might resent not being able to buy insurance in a
way they had become used to. Therefore the pilots alone had taken the
initiative-along with the abuse.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, Captain Demerest had paused for a few
seconds, watching the insurance booth activity. Now he saw a newcomer join
the queue-a nervous-looking man-spindly and stoop-shouldered, and with a
small, sandy mustache. The man carried a small attac46 case and seemed to
be worrying about the time; he cast frequent glances at the central lobby
clock, comparing it with his own watch. He was clearly unhappy about the
length of the line-up ahead of him.

Demerest thought disgustedly: the man had left himself with too little
time; he should forget about insurance and get aboard his flight.
Then Demerest reminded himself: he should be back on the flight deck of
Flight Two. He began to walk quickly toward the Trans America departure
concourse; at any moment now the first boarding announcement would be
made. Ah!-there it was.
"Trans America Airlines announces the departure of Flight Two, The Golden
Argosy, for Rome…"
Captain Dernerest had stayed in the terminal longer than he intended. As
he hurried, the announcement, clear and audible above the babel in the
concourses, continued.

12

Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, for Rome. The flight is now ready for
boarding. All passengers holding confirmed reservations . . ."
An airport flight departure announcement meant diverse things to those
who heard it. To some, it was a routine summons, a prefix to another
tedious, workoriented journey which-had free choice been theirsthey would
not have made. For others, a flight announcement spelled a beginning of
adventure; for others still, the nearing of an end-the journey home. For
some it entailed sadness and parting; for others, in counterpoint, the
prospect of reunion and joy. Some who heard flight announcements heard
them always for other people. Their friends or relatives were travelers;
as to themselves, the names of destinations were wistful
not-quite-glimpses of faraway places they would never see. A handful
heard flight announcements with fear; few heard them with indifference.
They were a signal

that a process of departure had begun. An airplane was ready; there was time
to board, but no time to be tardy; only rarely did airliners wait for
individuals. In a short time the airplane would enter man's unnatural
element, the skies; and because it was unnatural there had always been, and
would forever remain, a component of adventure and romance.
There was nothing romantic about the mechanics of a flight announcement. It
originated in a machine which in many ways resembled a juke box, except
that push buttons instead of coins were required to actuate it. The push
buttons were on a console in Flight Information Control-a miniature control
tower (each airline had its own F.I.C. or equivalent) –located above the
departure concourse. A woman clerk pushed the buttons in appropriate
sequence; after that the machinery took over.
Almost all flight announcements-the exceptions were those for special
situations-were pre-recorded on cartridge tapes. Although, to the ear, each
announcement seemed complete in itself, it never was, for it consisted of
three separate recordings. The first recording named the airline and
flight; the second described the loading situation, whether preliminary,
boarding, or final; the third recording specified gate number and con-
course. Since the three recordings followed one another without a pause,
they sounded-as they were intended to-continuous.
People who disliked quasi-human automation were sometimes cheered when
flight announcement machines went wrong. OccasionaHy part of the machinery
would jam, with such results as passengers for half a dozen flights being
misdirected to the same gate. The resultant debacle, involving a thousand
or more confused, impatient passengers, was an airline agent's nightmare.
Tonight, for FlightTwo, the machinery worked.
". . . passengers holding confirmed reservations please proceed to pate
forty-seven, the Blue Concourse 'D'."

By now, thousands in the terminal had heard the announcement of Flight Two.
Some who heard were

more cone.-med than others. A few, not yet concerned, would be, before
the night was done.
More than a hundred and fifty Flight Two passengers heard the
announcement. Those who had checked in, but had not reached gate
forty-seven, hastened toward it, a few recent arrivals still knocking
snow from their clothing as they went.

Senior Stewardess Gwen Meighen was pre-boarding several families with
small children when the announcement echoed down the boarding walkway.
She used the flight deck interphone to notify Captain Anson Harris, and
prepared herself for an influx of passengers within the next few minutes.
Ahead of the passengers, Captain Vernon Demerest ducked aboard and
hurried forward, closing the flight deck door behind him.
Anson Harris, working with Second Officer Cy Jordan, had already begun
the pre-flight check.
"Okay," Dernerest said. He slipped into the first officer's righthand
seat, and took the check list clipboard. Jordan returned to his regular
seat behind the other two.

Mel Bakersfeld, still in the central concourse, beard the announcement
and remembered that The Golden Argosy was Vernon Demerest's flight. Mel
genuinely regretted that once again an opportunity to end, or even
lessen, the hostility between himself and his brotber-inlaw had ended in
failure. Now, their personal relationship was-if possible-worse than
before. Mel wondered how much of the blame was his own; some, certainly,
because Vernon seemed to have a knack for probing out the worst in Mel,
but Mel honestly believed that most of their quarrel was of Vernon's
making. Part of the trouble was that Vernon saw himself as a superior
being, and resented it when others didn't. A good many pilots whom Mel
knew-especially captains-felt that way about themselves,
Mel stitl seethed when he remembered Vernon, after the airport
commissioners' meeting, asserting that people like Mel were
"ground-bound, desk-tied, with

penguins' minds." As if flying an airplane, Mel thought, were something
so damned extra-special compared with other occupations!
Just the same, Mel wished that tonight for a few hours he was a pilot
once again, and was about to leave –as Vernon was leaving-on a flight for
Rome. He remembered what Vernon had said about enjoying Italian sunshine
tomorrow. Mel could do with a little of that, a little less, at this
moment, of aviation's logistics of the ground. Tonight the surly bonds
of earth seemed surlier than usual.

Police Lieutenant Ned Ordway, who had left Mel Bakersfeld a few minutes
earlier, heard the announcement of Flight Two through the opened doorway
of a small security office just off the main concourse. Ordway was in the
office receiving a telephoned report from his desk sergeant at airport
police headquarters. According to a radio message from a patrol car, a
heavy influx of private automobiles, crammed with people, was coming into
the parking lots, which were having difficulty accommodating them.
Inquiries had revealed that most of the cars' occupants were from
Meadowood community-members of the anti-noise demonstration which Lie
utenant Ordway had already heard about. As per the lieutenant's orders,
the desk sergeant said, police reinforcements were on their way to the
terminal.

A few hundred feet from Lieutenant Ordway, in a passenger waiting area,
the little old lady from San Diego, Mrs. Ada Quonsett, paused in her
conversation with young Peter Coakley of Trans America, while both
listened to the announcement of Flight Two.
They were seated, side by side, on one of a series of black, leather
padded benches. Mrs. Quonsett had been describing the virtues of her late
husband in the same kind of terms which Queen Victoria must have used
when speaking of Prince Albert. "Such a dear person, so very wise, and
handsome. He came to me in later life, but I imagine, when he was young,
he must have been very much like you."

Peter Coakley grinned sheepishly, as he had done many times in the past
hour and a half. Since leaving Tanya Livingston, with instructions to
remain with the old lady stowaway until the departure of her return flight
for Los Angeles, their talk had consisted chiefly of a monologue by Mrs.
Quonsett in which Peter Coakley was compared frequently and favorably with
the late Herbert Quonsett. lt was a subject of which Peter was becoming
decidedly weary. He was unaware that that was what Ada Quonsett astutely
intended.
Surreptitiously, Peter Coakley yawned; this was not the kind of work he had
expected when he became a Trans America passenger agent. He felt an
absolute fool, sitting here in uniform, playing dry nurse to a harmless,
garrulous old dame who could have been his great-grandmother. lie hoped
this duty would be over soon. It was bad luck that Mrs. Quonsett's flight
to Los Angeles, like most others tonight, was being further delayed by the
storm; otherwise the old girl would have been on her way an hour ago. He
hoped to goodness that the L.A. flight would be called soon. Meanwhile, the
announcement about Flight Two, which was continuing, made a welcome, if
brief, respite.
Young Peter Coakley had already forgotten Tanya's cautioning words:
"Remember … she's got a barrelful of tricks."
"Fancy that!" Mrs. Quonsett said when the announcemeni ended. "A flight to
Rome! An airport is so interesting, don't you think, especially for a
young, intelligent person like you? Now there was a place-Rome –which my
late, dear husband wanted us both to visit." She clasped her hands, a wispy
lace handkerchief between them, and sighed. "We never did."
While she talked, Ada Quonsett's mind was ticking like a fine Swiss watch.
What she wanted was to give this child in a man's uniform the slip.
Although he was plainly becoming bored, boredom itself was not enough-, he
was still here. What she had to do was develop a situation in which boredom
would become carelessness. But it needed to be soon.
Mrs. Quonsett had not forgotten her original objec-

tive-bo stow away on a flight to New York. She had listened carefully for
New York departure announcements, and five flights of various airlines had
been called, but none was at the right moment, with any reasonable chance of
getting away from her young custodian, unnoticed. Now, she had no means of
knowing if there would be another New York departure before the Trans
America flight to Los Angeles-the flight which she was supposed to go on,
but didn't want to.
Anything, Mrs. Quonsett brooded, would be better than going back to Los
Angeles tonight. Anything!even . . . a sudden thought occurred to her . .
. even getting aboard that flight to Rome.
She hesitated. Why not? A lot of things she had said tonight about Herbert
were untrue, but it was true that they had once looked at some picture
postcards of Rome together . . . If she got no farther than Rome airport,
she would at least have been there; it would be something to tell Blanche
when she finally got to New York. Just as satisfying, it would be spitting
in the eye of that red-headed passenger agent bitch … But could she
manage it? And what was the gate number they had just announced? Wasn't it
. . . gate forty-seven in the Blue Concourse "D"? Yes, she was sure it was.
Of course, the flight might be full, with no space for a stowaway or anyone
else, but that was always a chance you took. Then for a flight to Italy,
she supposed, people needed passports to get aboard; she would have to see
how that worked out. And even now, if there was a flight announcement for
New York. . .
The main thing was not just to sit here, but to do something.
Mrs. Quonsett fluttered her frail, lined hands. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed.
"Oh dear!" The fingers of her right hand moved, hovering near the top of
her old-fashioned, high-necked blouse. She dabbed at her mouth with the
1,ace handkerchief and emitted a soft, low moan.
A look of alarm sprang to the young ticket agent's face. "What is it, Mrs.
Quonsett? What's wrong?"

Her eyes closed, then opened; she gave several short gasps. "I'm so
sorry. I'm afraid I don't feel at all well."
Peter Coakley inquired anxiously, "Do you want me to get help? A doctor?"
"I don't want to be a nuisance."
"You won't be. . . "
"No." Mrs. Quonsett shook her bead weakly. "I think I'll just go to the
ladies' room. I expect I'll be all right."
The young ticket agent appeared doubtful. He didn't want the old girl
dying on him, though she looked ready for it. He asked uneasily, "Are you
sure?"
"Yes, quite sure." Mrs. Quonsett decided she didn't want to attract
attention here, not in the main part of the terminal. There were too many
people nearby who would be watching. "Please help me up … thank you .
. . now, if you'll just give me your arm. I believe the ladies' room is
over there." On the way, she threw in a couple of low moans, producing
anxious glances from Peter Coakley. She reassured him, "I've had an
attack like this before. I'm sure I'll feet better soon."
At the door to the women's room she released young Coakley's arm. "You're
very kind to an old lady. So many young people nowadays … Oh, dear! .
. ." She cautioned herself: that was enough; she must be careful not to
overdo it. "You'll wait here for me? You won't go away?"
"Oh, no. I won't go."
"Thank you." She opened the door and went in.
There were twenty or thirty women inside; everything at the airport was
busy tonight, Mrs. Quonsett thought, including washrooms. Now she needed
an ally. She looked the field over carefully before selecting a youngish
secretary-type woman in a beige suit, who didn't seem in a hurry. Mrs.
Quonsett crossed to her.
"Excuse me, I'm not feeling very well. I wonder if you'd help me." The
little old lady from San Diego fluttered her hands and closed and opened
her eyes, as she had for Peter Coakley.
The younger woman was concerned at once. "Of course I'll help. Would you
like me to take you . . ."
"No . . . Please." Mrs. Quonsett leaned against a

washbasin, apparently for support. "All I want is to send a message. There's
a young man outside the door in airline uniform-Trans America. His name is
Mr. Coakley. Please tell him … yes, I would like him to get a doctor after
all."
"I'll tell him. Will you be all right until I get back?"
Mrs. Quonsett nodded. "Yes, thank you. But you will come back … and tell
me."
"Of course."
Within less than a minute the younger woman had returned. "He's sending for
a doctor right away. Now, I think you should rest. Why don't. . ."
Mrs. Quonsett stopped leaning on the basin. "You mean he's already gone?"
"He went immediately."
Now all she had to do, Mrs. Quonsett thought, was get rid of this woman.
She closed and opened her eyes again. "I know it's asking a great deal . .
. you've already been so good . . . but my daughter is waiting for me by
the main door, near United Air Lines."
"You'd like me to get her for you? Bring her here?"
Mrs. Quonsett touched the lace handkerchief to her lips. "I'd be so
grateful, though really it's an imposition."
"I'm sure you'd do as much for me. How will I know your daughter?"
"She's wearing a long mauve coat and a small white hat with yellow flowers.
She has a little dog-a French poodle."
The secretary-type woman smiled. "That should be easy. I won't be long."
"It is so good of you."
Ada Quonsett waited only a moment or two after the woman had gone. Mrs.
Quonsett hoped, for her temporary helper's sake, she did not spend too much
time searching for an imaginary figure in a mauve coat, accompanied by a
non-existent French poodle.
Smiling to herself, the little old lady from San Diego left the washroom,
walking spryly. No one accosted her as she moved away and was absorbed in
the surging terminal crowds.

Now, she thought, which was the way to the Blue Concourse "D," and gate
forty-seven?

To Tanya Livingston, the Flight Two announcement was like a scoreboard
change at a quadruple-header ball game. Four Trans America flights were,
at the moment, in various stages of departure; in her capacity as pas-
senger relations agent, Tanya was liaising with them all. As well, she
had just had an irritating session with a passenger from an incoming
flight from Kansas City.
The aggressive, fast-talking passenger complained that his wife's leather
traveling case, which appeared on the arrivals carousel with a rip in its
side, had been damaged as a result of careless handling. Tanya did not
believe him-the rip looked like an old one-but, as Trans America and
other airlines invariably did, she offered to settle the claim on the
spot, for cash. The difficulty had been in arriving at an agreeable sum.
Tanya offered thirty-five dollars, which she considered to be more than
the bag's value; the passenger held out for forty-five. Finally they
settled at forty dollars, though what the complainant didn't know was
that a passenger relations agent had authority to go to sixty dollars to
get rid of a nuisance claim. Even when suspecting fraud, airlines found
it cheaper to pay up quickly than enter into a prolonged dispute. In the-
ory, ticket agents were supposed to note damaged bags .at check-in, but
seldom did; as a result, passengers who knew the ropes sometimes replaced
worn-out luggage in that way.
Though the money was not her own, Tanya always hated parting with it
when, in her opinion, the airline was being cheated.
Now, she turned her attention to helping round up stragglers for Flight
Two, some of whom were still coming in. Fortunately, the bus with
downtown checkins had arrived several minutes earlier, and most of its
passengers had by now been directed to'Concourse "D," gate forty-seven.
In a minute or two, Tanya decided, in case there were any last-minute
passenger probiems

during boarding, she would go to gate forty-seven herself.

D. 0. Guerrero heard the announcement of Flight Two whitc in line at the
insurance counter in the terminal central concourse.
It was Guerrero, appearing hurried and nervous, whom Captain Vernon
Dernerest had seen arrive there, carrying his small attach6 case which
contained the dynamite bomb.
Guerrero had come directly from the bus to the insurance counter, where he
was now fifth in line. Two people at Lhe head of the line were being dealt
with by a pair of girl clerks who were working with maddening slowness. One
of the clerks-a heavy-chested blonde in a tow-cut blouse-was having a
prolonged conversation with her present customer, a middle-aged woman. The
clerk was apparently suggesting that the woman take out a larger policy
than had been asked for; the woman was being indecisive. Obviously, it
would take at least twenty minutes for Guerrero to reach the head of the
line, but by then Flight Two would probably be gone. Yet he had to buy
insurance; he had to be aboard.
The p.a. announcement had said that the flight was being boarded at gate
forty-seven. Guerrero should be at the gate now. He felt himself trembling.
His hands were clammy on the attach6 case handle. He checked his watch
again, for the twentieth time, comparing it with the terminal clock. Six
minutes had gone by since the announcement of Flight Two. The final call
… the airplane doors closing … could come at any moment. He would have
to do something.
D. 0. Guerrero pushed his way roughly to the head of the line. He was past
caring about being noticed, or offending. A man protested, "Hey, buddy,
we're waiting too." Guerrero ignored him. He addressed the bigbreasted
blonde. "Please . . . my flight has been called –the one to Rome. I need
insurance. I can't wait."
The min who had spoken before interjected, "Then go withoul. Another time,
get here sooner."
Guerreio was tempted to retort: There won't be an-

other time. Instead, he addressed himself to the blonde again. "Pleiise!"
To his surprise, she sn-.Liled warmly; he had been expecting a rebuff. "You
did say Rome?"
"Yes, yes. The flight's been called."
"I know. She smiled again. "Trans America Flight Two. It is called The
Golden Argosy."
Despite his anxiety, he was aware that the girl had a sexy European accent,
probably Hungarian.
D. 0. Guerrero made an effort to speak normally. "That's right."
The girl turned her smile on the others who were waiting. "This gentleman
really does not have much time. I'm sure you will not mind if I oblige him
first."
So much had gone wrong tonight that he could scarcely believe his good
luck. There was some muttered grumbling in the line of people waiting, but
the man who had done the talking until now was silent.
The girl produced an insurance application form. She beamed at the woman
she had been dealing with. "This will only take a moment." Then she turned
her smile again on D. 0. Guerrero.
For the first time he realized how effective the smile was, and why there
had been no real protest from the others. When the girl looked at him
directly, Guerrero –who was seldom affected by women-had the feeling he was
going to melt. She also had the biggest tits he had ever seen.
"My name is Bunnie," the girl said in her European accent. "What is yours?"
Her ballpoint pen was poised.

As a vendor of airport flight insurance, Bunnie Vorobioff was a remarkable
success.
She had come to the United States, not from Hungary as D. 0. Guerrero had
supposed, but from Glauchau in the southern portion of East Germany, via
the Berlin Wall. Bunnie (who was then Gretchen Vorobioff, the homely,
flat-chested daughter of a minor Communist official and a Young Communist
herself) crossed the wall at night with two male companions. The young men
were caught by searchlights, shot and killed; their

bodies hunli for twenty-four hours on barbed wire, in public view. Bunnie
avoided the searchlights and small arms fire and survived, survival being
a quality which seemed to come to her naturally.
Later, on arrival as a U.S. immigrant at age twentyone, she had embraced
American free enterprise and its goodies with the enthusiasm of a
religious convert. She worked hai d as a hospital aide, in which she had
some training, and moonlighted as a waitress. Into the remaining time she
somehow crammed a Berlitz course in English, and also managed to get to
bed-occasionally to sleep, more often with interns from the hospital. The
interns repaid Gretchen's sexual favors by introducing her to silicone
breast injections, which started casually and ended by being a joyous
group experiment to see just how big her breasts would get. Fortunately,
before they could become more than gargantuan, she exercised another
new-found freedom by quitting her hospital job for one with more money.
Somewhere along the way she was taken to Washington, D.C., and toured the
White House, the Capitol, and the Playboy Club. After the last, Gretchen
further Americanized herself by adopting the name Bunnie.
Now, a year and a half later, Bunnie Vorobioff was totally assimilated.
She was in an Arthur Murray dancing class, the Blue Cross and Columbia
Record Club, had a charge account at Carson Pirie Scott, subscribed to
Reader's Digest and TV Guide, was buying the World Book Encyclopedia on
time, owned a wig and a Volkswagen, collected trading stamps, and was on
PHIS.
Bunnie also loved contests of all kinds, especially those which held a
hope of tangible reward. Along these lines, a reason she enjoyed her
present job more than any other she had had so far, was that periodically
her insurance company employers held sales contests for its staff, with
merchandise prizes. One such contest was in progress now. It would end
tonight.
The contest was the reason why Bunnie had reacted so agreeably when D.
0. Guerrero announced that he was on his way to Rome. At this moment
Bunnie

needed forty more points to win her objective in the present sales
contest-an electric toothbrush. For a while tonight she had despaired of
completing her total of points before the deadline, since insurance
policies she had sold today were mostly for domestic flights; these
produced lower premiums and earned fewer contest points. However, if a
maximum size policy could be sold for an overseas flight, it would earn
twenty-five contest poirts, bringing the remainder within easy reach. The
question was: How big an insurance policy did this Rome passenger want
and, assuming it was less than the maximum, could Bunnie Vorobioff sell
him more?
Usually she could. Bunnie merely turned on her most sexy smile, which she
had learned to use like an instant warming oven, leaned close to the
customer so that her breasts bemused him, then announced how much more
benefit could be had for an additional small sum of money. Most times the
ploy worked and was the reason for Bunnie's success as an insurance
saleswoman.
When D. 0. Guerrero had spelled out his name, she asked, "What kind of
policy were you considering, sir?"
Guerrero swallowed. "Straight life-seventy-five thousand dollars."
Now that. he had said it, his mouth was dry. He had a sudden feai that
his words had alerted everyone in the line-up; their eyes were boring
into his back. His entire body was trembling; be was sure it would be
noticed. To cover up, he lit a cigarette, but his hand was shaking so
much that he had trouble bringing match and cigarette together.
Fortunately, the girl, with her pen hovering over the entry "principal
sum," appeared not to notice.
Bunnie pronounced, "That would cost two dollars and fifty cents."
"What? … Oh, yes." Guerrero managed to light the cigarette, then
dropped the match. He reached into his pocket for some of the small
amount of money he had remaining.
"But it is quite a tiny policy." Bunnie Vorobioff had still not m,,,rked
in the principal sum. Now she leaned forward, bi-inging her breasts
nearer to the customer. She could see him looking down at them with
fascina-

tion; men always did. Some, she sensed at times, wanted to reach out and
touch. Not this man, though.
"Tiny?" Guerrero's speech was awkward, halting. "I thought . . . it was the
biggest."
Even to Bunnie, the man's nervousness was now apparent. She supposed it was
because he would be flying soon. She directed a dazzling smile across the
counter.
"Oh no, sir; you could buy a three hundred thousand dollar policy. Most
people do, and for just ten dollars premium. Really, it isn't much to pay
for all that protection, is it?" She kept her smile switched on; the
response could mcan a difference of nearly twenty contest points; it might
gain or lose her the electric toothbrush.
"You said … ten dollars?"
"That's right-for three hundred thousand dollars."
D. 0. Guerrero thought: He hadn't known. All along, he had believed that
seventy-five thousand dollars was the top firnit for airport-purchase
insurance for an overseas flight. He had obtained the information from an
insurance application blank which, a month or two ago, he had picked up at
another airport. Now he remembered-the earlier blank came from an automatic
vending machine. It had not occurred to him that overthe-counter policies
could be that much greater.
Three hundred thousand dollars!
"Yes," he said eagerly. "Please … yes."
Bunnie beamed. "The full amount, Mr. Guerrero?"
He wa,,~ about to nod assent when the supreme irony occurred to him. He
probably did not possess ten dollars. He told Bunnie, "Miss . . . wait!"
and began searching his pockets, pulling out whatever money he could find.
The po)ple in line behind were becoming restive. The man who had objected
to Guerrero to begin with, protested to Bunnie, "You said he'd just take a
minute!"
Guerrero had found four dollars and seventy cents.
Two nights ago, when D. 0. Guerrero and Inez had pooled their last
remaining money, D.O. had taken eight dollars, plus small change, for
himself. After pawning Inez's ring and making the down payment on the Trans
America ticket, there had been a few dollars

left; he wasn't sure how many, but since then he had paid for meals,
subway fares, the airport bus . . . He had known that he would need two
and a half dollars for flight insurance, and had kept it carefully in a
separate pocket. But beyond that he hadn't bothered, aware that once
aboard Flight Two, money would be of no further use.
"If you don't have cash," Bunnie Vorobioff said, t4you can give me a
check."
"I left my checkbook home." It was a lie; there were checks in his
pocket. But if he wrote a check, it would bounce and invalidate the
insurance.
Bunnie persisted, "How about your Italian money, Mr. Guerrero? I can take
lire and give you the proper rate. "
He muttered, "I don't have Italian money," then cursed himself for having
said it. Downtown he had checked in without baggage for a flight to Rome.
Now insanely, he had demonstrated before onlookers that he had no money,
either American or Italian. Who would board an overseas flight unequipped
and penniless, except someone who knew the flight would never reach its
destination?
Then D. 0. Guerrero reminded himself … exceptin his own mind . . . the
two incidents-downtown and here-were unconnected. They would not be
connected until afterward, and by then it wouldn't matter.
He reasoned, as he had on the way out: It was not the strength of
suspicion which was important. The crucial facter would still be the
absence of wreckage, the absence of proof.
Surprisin.gly, despite his latest gaffe, he discovered he was growing
more confident.
He adde~i some (limes and pennies to the pile of change on the insurance
counter. Then, miraculously, in an inside pocket, he found a five-dollar
bill.
Not concealing his excitement, Guerrero exclaimed, "That's it! I have
enough!" There was even a dollar or so in small change left over.
But everr Bunnie Vorobioff was doubtful now. In-

stead of writing the three hundred thousand dollar policy which the man
was waiting for, she hesitated.
While he had searched his pockets, she had been watching the customer's
face.
It was strange, of course, that this man was going overseas without
money, but, after all, that was his own business; there could be plenty
of reasons for it. What really bothered her was his eyes; they held a
hint of frenzy, desperation. Both were qualities which Bunnie Vorobioff
recognized from her past. She had seen them in others. At moments-though
it seemed long agoshe had been close to them herself.
Bunnie's insurance company employers had a standing instruction: If a
purchaser of flight insurance seemed irrational, unusually excited, or
was drunk, the fact was to be reported to the airline on which he was
traveling. The question for Bunnic was: Was this an occasion to invoke
the rule?
She wasn't sure.
The company standing instruction was sometimes discussed, among
themselves, by flight insurance sales clerks. Some of the girls resented
or ignored it, arguing that they were hired to sell insurance, not to act
as unpaid, unqualified psychologists. Others pointed out that many people
who bought flight insurance at an airport were nervous to begin with; how
could anyone, without special training, decide where nervousness ended
and irrationality began? Bunnie herself had never reported a keyed-up
passenger, though she knew a girl who had, and the passenger turned out
to be an airline vice president, excited because his wife was going to
have a baby. There had been all kinds of trouble over that.
Still Bunnie hesitated. She had covered her hesitation by counting the
man's money on the counter. Now she wondered if Marj, the other clerk
working beside her, had noticed anytbing unusual. Apparently not. Marj
was busy writing a policy, earning her contest points.
In the ~-nd, it was Bunnie Vorobioff's past which swayed her decision.
Her formative years … occupied Europe, her flight to the West, the
Berlin Wall . . . had

taught her survival, and conditioned her to something else: to curb
curiosity, and not to ask unnecessary questions. Ouestions had a way of
leading to involvement, and involv,,-ment-in other people's problems-was
something to be avoided when one had problems of one's own.
Without further questioning, at the same time solving her problem of how to
win an electric toothbrush, Bunnie Vorobioff wrote a flight insurance
policy, for three hundred thousand dollars, on D. 0. Guerrero's life.
Guerrero mailed the policy to his wife, Inez, on his way to gate
forty-seven and Flight Two.

13

U. S. Customs Inspector Harry Standish did not hear the announcement of
Flight Two's impending departure, but knew it had been made. Flight
announcements were not relayed to the Customs Hall, since only international
arriving passengers came there, so Standish obtained his information on the
telephone, from Trans America Airlines. He had been informed that Flight Two
was beginning to load at gate forty-seven and would depart at its
rescheduled time of 11 P.m.
Standish was watching the clock and would go to gate forty-seven in a few
minutes, not on official business, but to say goodbye to his niece,
Judy-his sister's child –who was leaving for a year's schooling in Europe.
Standish had promised his sister, who lived in Denver, that he would see
Judy off. Earlier this evening, in the terminal, bo had spent some time
with his niece-a pleasant, seff-possessed girl of eighteen-and had said he
would drop around for a final goodbye before her flight took off.

Meanwhile, Inspector Standish was trying to clear up a tiresome problem
near the end of what had been an exceptionally harassing day.
"Madam," he said quietly to the haughty, angular woman whose several
suitcases were spread open on the Customs inspection table between them,
"are you quite sure you don't wish to change your story?"
She snapped back, "I suppose you're suggesting I should lie, when I've
already told you the truth. Really! –you people are so officious, so
disbelieving, I sometimes wonder if we're not living in a police state."
Harry Standish ignored the second remark, as Customs officers were trained
to ignore the many insults they received, and answered politely, "I'm not
suggesting anything, madam. I merely asked if you wished to amend your
statement about these items-the dresses, the sweaters, and the fur coat."
ne woman, whose American passport showed that she was Mrs. Harriet Du Barry
Mossman who lived in Evanston, and had just returned from a month in En-
gland, France, and Denmark, replied acidly, "No, I don't. Furthermore, when
my husband's lawyer hears of this interrogation . . ."
"Yes madam," Harry Standish said. "In that case, I wonder if you'd mind
signing this form. If you like, I'll explain it to you."
The dresses, sweaters, and fur coat were spread out on top of the
suitcases. Mrs. Mossman had been wearing the coat-a sable jacket-until a
few minutes ago when Inspector Standish arrived at Customs inspection
station number eleven; he had asked her to take the coat off so that he
could look at it more closely. Shortly before that, a red light on a wall
panel near the center of the big Customs Hall had summoned Standish. The
lights-one for each station-indicated that an inspecting officer had a
problem and needed supervisory help.
Now, the young Customs man who had dealt with Mrs. Mossman originally was
standing at Inspector StandisY,'i side. Most of the other passengers, who
had arrived aboard a Scandinavian Airlines DC-8 from

Copenhagen had cleared Customs and had left. Only this well-dressed American
woman posed a problem, insisting that all she had bought in Europe was some
perfume, costume jewelry, and shoes. The total declared value was ninety
dollars-ten dollars less than the free exemption she was allowed. The young
officer had been suspicious.
"Why should I sign anything?" Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman demanded.
Standish alanced at an overhead clock; it was a quarter to eleven. He still
had time to finish this and reach Flight Two before it left. He answered
patiently, "To make things easier for yourself, madam. We're, merely asking
you to confirm in writing what you've already told is. You say the dresses
were purchased. . ."
"How many times must I tell you? They were bought in Chicago and New York
before I left for Europe; so were the swcaters. The coat was a
gift-purchased in the United States. I received it six months ago."
Why, Har:y Standish wondered, did people do it? All the statements just
made, he knew with certainty, were lies.
To begin with, the dresses-six, all of good quality –had had their labels
removed. No one did that innocently; women were usually proud of the labels
in quality clothes. More to the point-the workmanship of the dresses Nkas
unmistakably French; so was the styling of the fur coat-thouah a Saks Fifth
Avenue label bad been sewn unskillfully in the coat lining. What people
like Mrs. Mossman faded to realize was that a trained Customs man didn't
need to see labels to know where garments ori!~inated. Cutting,
stitching-even the way a zipper was put in-were like familiar handwriting,
and equally distinctive.
The same thing was true of the three expensive sweat
ers. They also were without labels, and were unmistak
ably from Scotland, in typical British "drab" shades,
not available in the United States. When a U.S. store
ordered similar sweaters, the Scottish mills made them
in much bri ' ~4hter colors, which the North American
market favocced. All this, and much else, Customs
officers learned as part of their training.

Mrs. Mossman asked, "What happens if I sign the form?"
"Then you may go, madam."
"And take my things with me? All my things?"
"Yes."
"Supposing I refuse to sign?"
"Then we shall be obliged to detain you here while we continue the
investigation."
There was the briefest hesitation, then: "Very well. You fill out the
form; I'll sign."
"No, madarn; you fill it out. Now here, please describe the items, and
alongside where you say they were obtained. Please give the name of the
stores; also from whom you received the fur coat as a gift . . ."
Harry Standish thought: He would have to leave in a minute; it was ten
to eleven now. He didn't want to reach Flight Two after the doors were
closed. But first be had a hunch …
He waited while Mrs. Mossman completed the form and signed it.
Commencing tomorrow, an investigative officer would begin checking out
the statement Mrs. Mossman had just made. The dresses and sweaters would
be requisitioned and taken to the stores where she claimed they were
purchased; the fur jacket would be shown to Saks Fifth Avenue, who would
undoubtedly disown it . . . Mrs. Mossman-though she didn't know it
yet-was in for a great deal of trouble, including some heavy Customs duty
to be paid, and almost certainly a stiff fine.
"Madam," Inspector Standish said, "is there anything else you wish to
declare?"
Mrs. Mossman snapped indignantly, "There certainly isn't!"
"You're sure?" It was Customs Bureau policy to give travelers the utmost
opportunity to make voluntary declarations. People were not to be
entrapped unless they brought it on themselves.
Not deigning to reply, Mrs. Mossman inclined her head disdainfully.
"In that case, madam," Inspector Standish said, "will you kindly open
your handbag?"

For the first time the haughty woman betrayed uncertainty. "But surely,
purses are never inspected. I've been through Customs many times . . ."
"Normally they are not. But we do have the right."
Asking to see the contents of a woman's handbag was a rarity; like a
man's pockets, a handbag was considered personal an(] almost never looked
into. But when an individual chose to be difficult, Customs men could be
difficult too.
Reluctantly, Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman unclipped her purse.
I-Tarry Standish inspected a lipstick and a gold compact. When he probed
the powder in the compact, he extracted a diamond and ruby ring: he blew
the powder on the ring away. There was a tube of hand lotion, partially
used. Unrolling the tube, he could see that the bottom had been opened.
When he pressed the tube near the top, there was something hard inside.
He wondered when would-be smugglers would come up with something
original. Such old tricks! He bad seen them all many times.
Mrs. Mossman was noticeably pale. Her hauteur bad disappeared.
"Madam," Inspector Standish said, "I have to leave for a short while, but
I'll be back. In any case, this is going to take some time." He
instructed the young Customs officer beside him, "Inspect everything else
very carefully. Check the linings of the bag and cases, the seams and
hems of all the clothes. Make a list. You know what to do."
He was leaving when Mrs. Mossman called after him. "Officer!"
He stopped. "Yes, madam."
"About the coat and dresses … perhaps I did make a mistake … I was
confused. I did buy them, and there are some other things . . ."
Standish shook his head. What people never seemed to learn was that there
had to be a cut-off point somewhere; after that, cooperation was too
late. He saw that the young officer had found something else.
"Please! . . . . I beg of you my husbandAs

the Inspector turned away, the woman's face was white and drawn.
Walking briskly, Harry Standish used a short cut, below the public
portion of the terminal, to reach Concourse "D" and gate forty-seven. As
he went, he reflected on the foolishness of Mrs. Harriet Du'Barry Mossman
and the many like her. Had she been honest about the coat and dresses,
and declared them, the duty payable would not have been great, especially
for someone who was clearly well-to-do. The young Customs officer, though
noticing the sweaters, probably would not have bothered with them; and
certainly her handbag would not have been inspected. Customs men were
aware that most returning travelers did a little smuggling, and were
often tolerant about it. Also, if asked, they would help people lump
high-duty items under their duty-free exemption, charging duty on other
articles which were entitled to lower rates.
The people who got nabbed, hit hard, and were sometimes prosecuted, were
invariably the greedy ones like Mrs. Mossman, who tried to get away with
everything. What had depressed Harry Standish today was the number of
others of her kind.
He was relieved to see that the doors of Trans America Flight Two had not
yet closed, and a few remaining passengers were still being checked in.
His U.S. Customs uniform was a passport anywhere within the airport, and
the busy gate agent barely glanced up as Inspector Standish went past.
The gate agent, Standish noticed, was being helped by a red-headed woman
passenger relations agent whom he knew as Mrs. Livingston.
The inspector entered the walkway to the tourist section; a stewardess
was at the rear airplane doorway. He smiled. "I'll only be a moment.
Don't take off with me aboard."
He found his niece, Judy, in an aisle seat of a threeseat section. She
was keeping a baby amused, the baby belonging to a young couple in the
two seats alongside. Like all airplane tourist sections, this one already
seemed cramped and crowded, the seats oppressively

close to one another. On the few air journeys Inspector Standish made
himself, he traveled tourist, but always had a sense of claustrophobia.
Tonight he didn't envy any of these people the monotonous ten-hour journey
which lay ahead of them.
"Uncle Harry!" Judy said. "I thought you weren't going to make it." She
handed the baby back to its mother.
"I just carne to say God bless!" he told her. "Have a good year, and when
you come back don't try any smuggling."
She laughed. "I won't. Goodbye, Uncle Harry."
His niece put her face up to be kissed, and be bussed her affectionately.
He felt good about Judy. He had a feeling she would not grow up to be a
Mrs. Mossman.
Leaving the aircraft, with a friendly nod to the stewardesses, the
Customs inspector paused a moment at the concourse gate, watching. The
last moments before departure of any flight, especially one for some far
distant place, always fascinated him, as it did many people. The final
call . . . "Trans America Airlines announce the immediate departure of
Flight Two, The Golden
Argosywas just coming over the p.a. system.
The knot of people waiting to board had been
reduced to two. The redheaded passenger agent, Mrs.
Livingston, was gathering up her papers as the regular
gate agent dealt with the last arrival but one-a tall
blond man, hatless, and wearing a camel-hair coat.
Now, the blond man left the agent's desk and entered
the tourist section walkway. Mrs. Livingston left too,
walking away from the departure gate, toward the main
section of the terminal.
While he had been watching, Inspector Standish was aware, almost
subconsciously, of someone else nearby, facing a window which looked away
from the departure gate. Now the figure turned. He saw that it was an old
lady; she appeared small, demure, and frail. She was dressed primly in
black in an old-fashioned style, and carried a black beaded purse. She
looked as if she needed somebody to take care of her, and he wondered

why someone so old, and apparently alone, was here so late at night.
Moving with surprising spryness, the old lady crossed to where the Trans
America ticket agent was dealing with the last Flight Two passenger.
Standish heard some, though not all, of what was said; the old lady's words
were punctuated by noise from outside, from the aircraft engines, which
were being started. "Excuse . . . my son just boarded … blond hair, no
hat, camel-hair coat … forgot his wallet … all his money." The old
lady, Standish observed, was holding what looked like a man's billfold.
The gMe agent glanced up impatiently. He appeared harassed; gate men
usually were at the last moments of departure. The agent put out his hand
to take the wallet, then, observing the old lady, changed his mind and said
something quickly. He pointed to the tourist boarding walkway and Standish
heard, "Ask a stewardess." The old lady smiled and nodded, and entered the
walkway. A moment later she was out of sight.
All that Customs Inspector Standish had observed had taken only
moments-perhaps less than a minute. Now, he saw a newcomer arrive-a
stoop-shouldered, spindly man, hurrying down Concourse "D" toward gate
forty-seven. The man had a gaunt face and a slight sandy mustache. He was
carrying a small attach6 case.
Standish had been about to turn away, but something about the man attracted
his attention. It was the way the newcomer was holding his case-under his
arm, protectively. Harry Standish had watched people, many times, doing the
same thing as they came through Customs. It was a giveaway that whatever
was inside the case was something they wanted to conceal. If this man had
been coming in from overseas, Standish would have had him open the case,
and would have examined its contents. But the man was going out of the
United States.
Strictly speaking, it was none of Harry Standish's business.
Yet something . . . instinct, a sixth sense which Customs men developed,
plus a personal connection, through Judy, with Flight Two … something
kept the

inspector watching, his eyes directed at the small attach6 case which the
spindly man still cradled.

The feeling of corifidence which returned to D. 0. Guerrero at the
insurance counter had remained. As he approached gate forty-seven,
observing that he was still in time for Flight Two, he had a conviction
that most of his difficulties were over; from now on, he assured himself,
everything would work out as he had foreseen. In keeping with this belief,
there was no problem at the gate. As he had planned from the beginning, at
this point he drew attention to the minor discrepancy between the name
"Buerrero" on his ticket and "Guerrero" on his passport. Barely glancing at
the passport, the gate agent corrected both the ticket and his passenger
list, then apologized, "Sorry, sir; sometimes our reservation machines get
careless." Now, Guerrero noted with satisfaction, his name was recorded
properly; later, when Flight Two was reported missing, there would be no
doubt about his own identification.
"Have a pleasant flight, sir." The gate agent returned his ticket folder
and motioned toward the tourist section walkway.
As D. 0. Guerrero went aboard, still holding his attach6 case carefully,
the starboard engines were already running.
His numbered seat-by a window in a three-seat seetion-had been allocated
when he checked in downtown. A stewardess directed him to it. Another male
passenger, already in the aisle seat, stood up partially as Guerrero
squeezed by. The center seat, between them, was unoccupied.
D. 0. Guerrero balanced his case cautiously on his knees as he strapped
himself in. His seat was midway in the tourist section, on the left side.
Elsewhere in the cabin, other passengers were still settling down, ar-
ranging hand baggage and clothing; a few people were blocking the center
aisle. One of the stewardesses, her lips moving silently, and looking as if
she wished everyone would keep still, was making a count of heads.
Relaxing for the first time since leaving the South

Side apartment, D, 0. Guerrero leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
His hands, steadier than at any other time this evening, were firmly on the
attach6 case. Without opening his eyes, his fingers groped under the handle
and located the all-important loop of string. The feel of it was reassuring.
He would sit precisely like this, he decided, when in approximately four
hours from now he would pull the string, releasing the electrical current
which would fire the massive charge of dynamite within the case. When the
moment came, he wondered, how much would he have time to know? In answer, he
reasoned: there would be an instant … one fleeting particle of a second
only … when he would savor, triumphantly, rhe knowledge of success. Then,
mercifully, no more …
Now that he was aboard and ready, he wished the flight would go. But when
he opened his eyes, the same stewardess was still counting.

There were two stewardesses, at the moment, in the tourist cabin. The
little old lady from San Diego, Mrs. Ada Quonsett, had been observing them
both, intermittently, peering through the slightly opened door of a toilet
where she was hiding.
The pre-takeoff head count by a stewardess, now being made, was something
which Mrs. Quonsett knew about; she was also aware that this was the moment
when anyone who was aboard illegally was closest to exposure. But if a
stowaway could survive the count, chances were that she (or he) would not
be detected until much later, if at all.
Fortunately, the stewardess now making the head count was not the one whom
Mrs. Quonsett encountered when she came aboard.
Mrs. Quonsett had had a few anxious moments outside while she cautiously
watched the redheaded passenger agent bitch, whom she had been distressed
to find on duty at gate forty-seven. Fortunately, the woman had left just
before the flight finished loading, and getting past the male gate agent
proved easy.
After that, Mrs. Quonsett repeated her story about

the wallet to the stewardess on duty at the aircraft door-way. The
stewardess, who was trying to cope with queries from several other people
milling in the entranceway, declined to accept the wallet when she learned
there was "a lot of money in it"-a reaction Mrs. Quonsett had counted on.
Also as expected, the little old lady was told she could take the wallet
to her son herself, if she was quick.
The tall blond man who, all unknowingly, had been a i9son" to Mrs.
Quonsett, was getting into a seat near the front of the cabin– Mrs.
Quonsett moved in his direction, but only briefly. She was watching
covertly, waiting for the attention of the stewardess near the door to
be diverted. Almost at once it was.
Mrs. Quonsett had left her plans flexible. There was a seat close by,
which she could have occupied; however, a sudden movement by several
passengers at once left a clear path to one of the aircraft toilets. A
moment or two later, through the partially opened toilet door, she saw
the original stewardess go forward out of sight and another stewardess
begin the head count, starting at the front.
,When the second stewardess-still counting-neared the back of the
airplane, Mrs. Quonsett emerged from the toilet and walked quickly past
with a muttered, "Excuse me." She heard the stewardess cluck her tongue
impatiently. Mrs. Quonsett sensed that she had now been included in the
count-but that was all.
A few rows forward, on the left side, there was an unoccupied seat in the
middle of a section of three. In her experience as an aerial stowaway,
the little old lady from San Diego had learned to seek such seats because
most passengers disliked them; therefore they were the last to be chosen
from seat selection boards and, where an airplane was less than full,
were usually left empty.
Once in the seat, Mrs. Quonsett kept her head down, trying to be as
inconspicuous as possible. She had no illusion that she could avoid
discovery indefinitely. At Rome there would be Immigration and Customs
formalities, making it impossible for her to walk away unimpeded, as she
was accustomed to doing after her

illegal flights to New York; but, with luck, she would have the thrill of
reaching Italy, plus an agreeable journey back. Meanwhile, on this flight,
there would be a good meal, a movie, and, later, perhaps, a pleasant
conversation with her two seat companions.
Ada Ouonsett wondered about her seat companions. She had noticed that both
were men, but for the time being avoided looking at the man on her right
since it would mean turning her face toward the aisle and the stewardesses,
both of whom were now moving back and forth, making another head count.
Mrs. Quonsett took covert stock, however, of the man on her left, a survey
made easier by the fact that be was reclining and had his eyes closed. He
was a gaunt, thin man, she observed, with a sadow face and scrawny neck,
who looked as if a hearty meal might do him good. He had a small sandy
mustache.
On his knees, Mrs. Quonsett noticed, the man on her left bad in attach6
case and, despite the fact that his eyes were closed, he was holding it
firmly.
The stcwardesses bad finished their head count. Now a third stcwardess
appeared from the first class compartment forward, and the three of them
were holding a hurried consultation.
The man on Mrs. Quonsett's left had opened his eyes. He was still gripping
the case tightly. The little old lady from San Diego-an habitually curious
soul-wondered what was inside.

Walking back toward the Customs Hall-this time through the passenger
section of the terminal-Tnspector Flarry Standish was still thinking about
the man with the attach6 case. Standish could not have questioned th~-
man; outside a Customs enclosure a Customs officer had no right to
interrogate anyone, unless believing they had evaded Customs inspection.
The man at the departure gate quite obviously had not.
What Standish could do, of course, was telegraph the man's description to
Italian Customs, advising that he might be carrying contraband. But
Standish doubted if he would. There was little cooperation between Customs

departments iriternationally, only an intense professional rivalry. Even
vith Canadian Customs, close at hand, the same thing was true; incidents
were on record where U.S. Customs had been tipped of that illegal diamond
shipments were being smuggled into Canada, but-as a matter of
policy-Canadian authorities were never told. Instead, U.S. agents spotted
the suspects on arrival in Canada and tailed them, only making an arrest if
they crossed the United States border. The U.S. reasoning was: the country
which seized that kind of contraband kept it all, and Customs departments
were averse to sharing loot.
No, Inspector Standish decided, there would be no telegram to Italy. He
would, however, tell Trans America Airlines of his doubts and leave a
decision to them.
Ahead of him he had seen Mrs. Livingston, the passenger relations agent who
had been at the Flight Two departure gate. She was talking with a Skycap
and a group of passengers. Harry Standish waited until the Skycap and
passengers had gone.
"Hullo, Mr. Standish," Tanya said. "I hope things are quieter in Customs
than around here."
"They aren't," he told her, remembering Mrs. Harriet Du Barry Mossman, no
doubt still being questioned in the Customs Hall.
As Tanya waited for him to speak again, Standish hesitated. Sometimes he
wondered if he was becoming too much the super sleuth, too aware of the
keenness of his instincts. Most times, though, his instincts proved right.
"I was watching your Flight Two load," Standish said. "There was something
bothered me." He described the gaunt, spindly man and the suspicious way he
had been clasping an attach6 case.
"Do you think he's smuggling something?"
Inspector Standish smiled. "If he were arriving from abroad, instead of
leaving, I'd find out. All I can tell Von, Mrs. Livingston, is that there's
something in that case which hc'd prefer other people not to know about."
Tanya said thoughtfully, "I don't quite know what I

can do." Even if the man was smuggling she was not convinced it was the
airline's business.
"Probably there's nothing to do. But you people cooperate with us, so I
thought I'd pass the information on."
"Thank you, Mr. Standish. I'll report it to our D.T.M., and perhaps he'll
want to notify the captain."
As the Customs inspector left, Tanya glanced at the overhead terminal
clock; it showed a minute to eleven. Heading for Trans America
Administration on the executive mezzanine, she reasoned: it was too late
now to catch Flight Two at the departure gate; if the flight had not yet
left the gate, it certainly would within the next few moments. She wondered
if the District Transportation Manager was in his office. If the D.T.M.
thought the information important, he might notify Captain Demcrest by
radio while Flight Two was still on the ground and taxiing. Tanya hurried.
The D.T.M. was not in his office, but Peter Coakley was.
Tanya snapped, "What are you doing here?"
The YOUng Trans America agent, whom the little old lady from San Diego had
eluded, described sheepishly what had happened.
Peter Coakley had already received one dressing down. The doctor, summoned
to the women's washroom on a fool's errand, had been articulate and
wrathful. Young Coakley clearly expected more of the same from Mrs.
Livingston. He was not disappointed.
Tanya exploded, "Damn, damn, damn!" She remonstrated, "Didn't I warn you
she had a barrelful of tricks?"
"Yes, you did, Mrs. Livingston. I guess I . .
"Never mind that now! Get on the phone to each of our gates– Warn them to
be on the lookout for an old, innocent-] ooking woman in black-you know the
description. She's trying for New York, but may go a roundabout way. If
she's located, the (late agent is to detain her and call here. She is not
to be allowed on any flight, no matter what she says. While you're doing
that, I'll call the other airlines."

"Yes, ma'am."
There were several telephones in the office. Peter Coakley took one, Tanya
another.
She knew by memory the airport numbers of TWA, American, United, and
Northwest; all four airlines had direct New York flights. Talking first
with her opposite number in TWA, Jenny Henline, she could hear Peter
Coakley saying, "Yes, very old … in black … when you see her, you won't
believe it. . . "
A contest of minds had developed, Tanya realized, between herself and the
ingenious, slippery Ada Quonsett. Who, in the end, Tanya wondered, would
outwit the other?
For the moment she had forgotten both her conversation with Customs
Inspector Standish and her intention to locate the D.T.M.

Aboard Might Two, Captain Vernon Dernerest fumed, "What in heH's the
holdup?"
Engines numbers three and four, on the starboard side of aircraft N-731-TA,
were running. Throughout the airplane their subdued but powerful jet
thrumming could be felt.
The pilots had received ramp supervisor's clearance by interphone, several
minutes ago, to start three and four, but were still awaiting clearance to
start engines one and two, which were on the boarding side and normally not
activated until all doors were closed. A red panel light had winked off a
minute or two earlier, indicating that the rear fuselage door was closed
and secure; immediately after, the rear boarding walkway was withdrawn. But
another bright red light, still glowing, showed that the for-ward cabin
door had not been closed, and a glance backward through the cockpit windows
confirnied that the front boarding walkway was still in place.
Swinging ,,round in his right-hand seat, Captain Demerest instructed Second
Officer Jordan, "Open the door."
Cy Jordan was seated behind the other two pilots at a complex panel of
instruments and engine controls. Now

he half rose and, extending his long, lean figure, released the flight
deck door which opened outward. Through the doorway, in the forward
passenger section, they could see a half dozen figures in Trans America
uniform, Gwen Meighen among them.
"Gwen!" Demerest called. As she came into the flight deck, "What the
devil's happening?"
Gwen looked worried. "The tourist passenger count won't tally. We've made
it twice; we still can't agree with the manifest and tickets."
"Is the ramp supervisor there?"
"Yes, he's checking our count now."
"I want to see him."
At this stage of any airline flight there was always a problem of divided
authority. Nominally the captain was already in command, but he could
neither start engines nor taxi away without authorization from the ramp
supervisor. Both the captain and ramp chief had the same objective-to
make an on-schedule departure. However, their differing duties sometimes
produced a clash.
A moment later, the uniformed ramp supervisor, a single silver stripe
denoting his rank, arrived on the flight deck.
"Look, chum," Demerest said, "I know you've got problems, but so have we.
How much longer do we sit here?"
611've just ordered a ticket recheck, captain. Tbere's one more passenger
in the tourist section than there ought to be."
"All righl," Demerest said. "Now I'll tell you something. Even, second
we sit here we're burning fuel on three and ','()ur, which you gave the
okay to start . . . precious fuel which we need in the air tonight. So
unless this airplanc, leaves right now, I'm shutting everything down and
we'll send for Fueling to top off our tanks. There's another thing you
ought to know: air traffic control. just told us they have a temporary
gap in traffic. If we taxi o it right away, we can be off the ground
fast; in ten minutes from now that may have changed. Now, you make the
decision. What's it to be?"

Torn between dual responsibilities, the ramp supervisor hesit-,ited. He
knew the captain was right about burning fuel; yet to stop engines now,
and top off tanks, would mean a further half hour's costly delay on top
of the hour which Flight Two was late already. On the other hand, this
was an important international flight on which the bead count and ticket
collection ought to agree. If there was really an unauthorized person
aboard, and he was found and taken off, later the ramp supervisor could
justify his decision to hold. But if the difference in tallies turned out
to be a clerical error-as it miglit-tqe D.T.M. would roast him alive.
He made the obvious decision. Calling through the flight deck door, he
ordered, "Cancel the ticket recheck. This flight is leaving now."
As the flight deck door closed, a grinning Anson Harris was on the
interphone to a crewman on the ground below. "Clear to start two?"
The reply rattled back, "Okay to start two."
The forward fuselage door was closed and secured; in the cockpit, its red
indicator light winked out.
Number two engine fired and held at a steady roar.
"Okay to start one?"
"Okay to start one."
The forward boarding walkway, like a severed umbilical cord, was gliding
back toward the terminal.
Vernon Demerest was calling ground control on radio for permission to
taxi.
Number one engine fired and held.
In the left seat, Captain Harris, who would taxi out and fly the takeoff,
had his feet braced on the rudder pedal toe brakes.
It was still snowing hard.
"Trans America Flight Two from ground control. You are clear to taxi .
. ."
The engine tempo quickened.
Dernerest thought: Rome … and Naples … here we come!
It was I t P.m., Central Standard Time.
In Concourse "D," half running, half stumbling, a figure reached gate
forty-seven.

Even if there had been breath to ask, questions were unneeded.
The boarding ramps were closed. Portable signs denoting the departure of
Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, were being taken down. A taxiing aircraft
was leaving the gate.
Helplessly, not knowing what she should do next, Inez Guerrerc, watched
the airplane's lights recede.