Airport

At half-past six on a Friday evening in January, Lincoln International
Airport, Illinois , was functioning, though with difficulty.
The airport was reeling-as was the entire Midwestern United States-from
the meanest, roughest winter storm in half a dozen years. The storm had
lasted three days. Now, like pustules on a battered, weakened body,
trouble spots were erupting steadily.
A United Air Lines food truck, loaded with two hundred dinners, was lost
and presumably snowbound somewhere on the airport perimeter. A search for
the truck-in driving snow and darkness-had so far failed to locate either
the missing vehicle or its driver.
United's Flight I I I-a non-stop DC-8 for Los Angeles , which the food
truck was to service-was already several hours behind schedule. The food
snafu would make it later stiff. Similar delays, for varying reasons,
were affecting at least a hundred flights of twenty other airlines using
Lincoln International.
Out on the airfield, runway three zero was out of use, blocked by an
A6reo-Mexican jet-a Boeing 707-its wheels deeply mired in waterlogged
ground beneath snow, near the runway's edge. Two hours of intensive
effort had failed to get the big jet moved. Now, A6reoMexican, having
exhausted its own local resources, had appealed to 'IVA for help.
Air Traffic Control, hampered by the loss of runway

3

three zero, had instituted flow control procedures, limiting the volume
of incoming traffic from adjoining air route centers at Minrieapolis,
Cleveland , Kansas City, Indianapolis , and Denver . Despite this, twenty
incoming flights were stacked up overhead, and orbiting, some nearing low
fuel limits. On the ground, twice that number were readying for takeoff.
But until the backlog of flights in the air could be reduced, ATC had
ordered further delays of outbound traffic. Meanwhile, terminal gates,
taxiways, and ground holding areas were increasingly crammed with waiting
aircraft, many with engines running.
Air freiQht warehouses-of all airlines-were stacked to their palletized
limits with shipments, their usual high speed transit impeded by the
storm. Freight supervisors were nervously watching perishables-hothouse
flowers from Wyoming for New England; a ton of Pennsylvania cheese for
Anchorage , Alaska ; frozen peas for Iceland ; live lobsters-trans-shipped
from the east for a polar route flight-destination Europe . The lobsters
were for tomorrow's menus in Edinburgh and Paris where they would be
billed as "fresh local seafood," and American tourists would order them
unknowingly. Storm or not, contracts decreed that air freight perishables
must arrive at destination fresh, and swiftly.
Causing special anxiety in American Airlines Freight was a shipment of
several thousand turkey poults, hatched in incubators only hours earlier.
The precise hatching-shipping schedule-like a complex order of battle-was
set up weeks ago, before the turkey eggs were laid. It called for
delivery of the live birds on the West Coast within forty-eight hours of
birth, the limit of the tiny creatures' existence without their first
food or water. Normally, the arrangement provided a near-hundred percent
survival. Significant also-if the poults were fed en route, they would
stink, and so would the airplane conveying them, for days afterward.
Already the poults' schedule was out of joint by several hours. But an
airplane had been diverted from passenger to freight service, and tonight
the fledgling turkeys would have priority over everything else traveling,
human VIPs included.

In the main passenger terminal, chaos predominated. Terminal waiting areas
were jammed with thousands of passengers from delayed or canceled flights.
Baggage, in piles, was everywhere. The vast main concourse had the combined
appearance of a football scrimmage and Christmas Eve at Macy's.
High on the terminal roof, the airport's immodest slogan, LINCOLN
INTERNATIONAL-AVIATION CROSSROADS OF THE WORLD, was entirely obscured by
drifting snow.
The wonder was, Mel Bakersfeld reflected, that anything was continuing to
operate at all.
Mel, airport general manager-lean, rangy, and a powerhouse of disciplined
energy-was standing by the Snow Control Desk, high in the control tower. He
peered out into the darkness. Normally, from this glasswalled room, the
entire airport complex-runways, taxi strips, terminals, traffic of the
ground and air-was visible like neatly aligned building blocks and models,
even at night their shapes and movements well defined by lights. Only one
loftier view existed-that of Air Traffic Control which occupied the two
floors above.
But tonight only a faint blur of a few nearer lights penetrated the
almost-opaque curtain of wind-driven snow. Mel suspected this would be a
winter to be discussed at meteorologists' conventions for years to come.
The present storm had been born five days ago in the lee of the Colorado
mountains. At birth it was a tiny low pressure area, no bigger than a
foothills homestead, and most forecasters on their air route weather charts
had either failed to notice, or ignored it. As if in resentment, the low
pressure system thereupon inflated like a giant malignancy and, still
growing, swung first southeast, then north.
It crossed Kansas and Oklahoma , then paused at Arkansas , gathering assorted
nastiness. Next day, fat and monstrous, it rumbled up the Mississippi
Valley. Finally, over Illinois the storm unloaded, almost paralyzing the
state with blizzard winds, freezing temperatures, and a ten-inch snowfall
in twenty-four hours.
At the airport, the ten-inch snow had been preceded

by a continuous, if somewhat lighter, fall. Now it was being followed by
more snow, whipped by vicious winds which piled new drifts-at the same
time that plows were clearing the old. Maintenance snow crews were nearing
exhaustion. Within the past few hours several men had been ordered home,
overfatigued despite their intermittent use of sleeping quarters provided
at the airport for just this kind of emergency.
At the Snow Control Desk near Mel, Danny Farrow –at other times an
assistant airport manager, now snow shift supervisor-was calling
Maintenance Snow Center by radiophone.
"We're losing the parking lots. I need six more Payloaders and a banjo
team at Y-seventy-four."
Danny was seated at the Snow Desk, which was not really a desk at all,
but a wide, three-position console. Confronting Danny and his two
assistants-one on either side-was a battery of telephones, Tel Auto-
graphs, and radios. Surrounding them were maps, charts, and bulletin
boards recording the state and location of every piece of motorized
snow-fighting equipment, as well as men and supervisors. There was a
separate board for banjo teams-roving crews with individual snow shovels.
The Snow Desk was activated only for its one seasonal purpose. At other
times of year, this room remained empty and silent.
Danny's bald pate showed sweat globules as he scratched notations on a
large-scale airport grid map. He repeated his message to Maintenance,
making it sound like a desperate personal plea, which perhaps it was. Up
here was the snow clearance command post. Whoever ran it was supposed to
view the airport as a whole, juggling demands, and deploying equipment
wherever need seemed greatest. A problem thoughand undoubtedly a cause
of Danny's sweating-was that those down below, fighting to keep their own
operations going, seldom shared the same view of priorities.
"Sure, sure. Six more Payloaders." An edgy voice from Maintenance, which
was on the opposite side of the airfield, rattled the speakerphone.
"We'll get 'em

from Santa Claus. He ought to be around in this lot." A pause, then more
aggressively, "Any other damnfool stupid notions?"
Glancing at Danny, Mel shook his head. He recognized the speakerphone voice
as belonging to a senior foreman who had probably worked continuously since
the present snowfall started. Tempers wore thin at times like this, with
gopd reason. Usually, after an arduous, snow-fighting winter, airport
maintenance and management had an evening stag session together which they
called "kiss-and-make-up night." They would certainly need one this year.
Danny said reasonably, "We sent four Payloaders after that United food
truck. They should be through, or almost."
"They might be-if we could find the frigging truck."
"You haven't located it yet? What are you guys doing –having a supper and
ladies' night." Danny reached out, turning down the speakerphone volume as
a reply slammed back.
"Listen, do you birds in the crummy penthouse have any idea what it's like
out on the field? Maybe you should look out the windows once in a while.
Anybody could be at the goddam North pole tonight and never know the
difference."
"Try blowing on your hands, Ernie," Danny said. "It may keep 'em warm, and
it'll stop you sounding off."
Mentally, Mel Bakersfeld filtered out most of the exchange, though he was
aware that what had been said about conditions away from the terminal was
true. An hour ago, Mel had driven across the airfield. He used service
roads, but although he knew the airport layout intimately, tonight he had
trouble finding his way and several times came close to being lost.
Mel had gone to inspect the Maintenance Snow Center and then, as now,
activity had been intensive. Where the tower Snow Control Desk was a
command post, the Maintenance Snow Center was a front line headquarters.
From here, weary crews and supervisors came and went, alternately sweating
and freezing, the

tanks of regular workers swelled by auxiliaries-carpenters, electricians,
plumbers, clerks, police. The auxiliaries were pulled from their regular
airport duties and paid time-and-a-half until the snow emergency was over.
But they knew what was expected, having rehearsed snow maneuvers, like
weekend soldiers, on runways and taxi strips during summer and fall. It
sometimes amused outsiders to see snow removal groups, plow blades down,
blowers roaring, on a hot, sunny day. But if any expressed surprise at the
extent of preparation, Mel Bakersfeld would remind them that removing snow
from the airport's operating area was equal to clearing seven hundred
miles of highway.
Like the Snow Desk in the control tower, the Maintenance Snow Center was
activated for its winter function only. It was a big, cavernous room
above an airport truck garage and, when in use, was presided over by a
dispatcher. Judging from the present radio voice, Mel guessed that the
regular dispatcher had been relieved for the time being, perhaps for some
sleep in the "Blue Room," as Airport Standing Orders-with a trace of
humor-called the snow crews' bunkhouse.
The maintenance foreman's voice came on the radiophone again. "We're
worried about that truck too, Danny. The poor bastard of a driver could
freeze out there. Though if he has any gumption, he isn't starving."
The UAL food truck had left the airline flight kitchen for the main
terminal nearly two hours ago. Its route lay around the perimeter track,
a journey which usually took fifteen minutes. But the truck had failed
to arrive, and obviously the driver had lost his way and was snowbound
somewhere in the airport boondocks. United flight dispatch had first sent
out its own search party, without success. Now airport management had
taken over.
Mel said, "That United flight finally took off, didn't it? Without food."
Danny Farrow answered without looking up. "I hear the captain put it to
the passengers. Told them it'd take

an hour to get another truck, that they had a movie and liquor aboard, and
the sun was shining in California . Everybody voted to get the hell out. I
would, too."
Mel nodded, resisting a temptation to take over and direct the search
himself for the missing truck and driver. Action would be a therapy. The
cold of several days, and dampness with it, had made Mel's old war injury
ache again-a reminder of Korea which never left him-and he could feel it
now. He shifted, leaning, letting the good foot take his weight. The relief
was momentary. Almost at once, in the new position, the ache resumed.
He was glad, a moment later, that he had not interfered. Danny was already
doing the right thing-intensifying the truck search, pulling plows and men
from the terminal area and directing them to the perimeter road. For the
time being, the parking lots would have to be abandoned, and later there
would be plenty of beefs about that. But the missing driver must be saved
first.
Between calls, Danny warned Mel, "Brace yourself for more complaints. This
seaxch'Il block the perimeter road. We'll hold up all the other food trucks
till we find the guy. 11
Mel nodded. Complaints were a stock-in-trade of an airport manager's job.
In this case, as Danny predicted, there would be a flood of protests when
other airlines realized their food trucks were not getting through,
whatever the reason.
There were some who would find it hard to believe that a man could be in
peril of death from exposure at a center of civilization like an airport,
but it could happen just the same. The lonelier limits of the airport were
no place to wander without bearings on a night like this. And if the driver
decided to stay with his truck and keep the motor running for warmth, it
could quickly be covered by drifts, with deadly carbon monoxide accu-
mulating beneath.
With one hand, Danny was using a red telephone; with the other, leafing
through emergency orders-Mel's orders, carefully drawn up for occasions
such as this.

The red phone was to the airport's duty fire chief. Danny summarized the
situation so far.
"And when we locate the truck, let's get an ambulance out there, and you
may need an inhalator or heat, could be both. But better not roll until
we know where exactly. We don't want to dig you guys out, too."
The sweat, in increasing quantity, was gleaming on Danny's balding head.
Mel was aware that Danny disliked running the Snow Control Desk and was
happier in his own department of air-port planning, sifting logistics and
hypotheses of aviation's future. Such things were comfortably projected
well ahead, with time to think, not disconcertingly here-and-now like the
problems of tonight. Just as there were people who lived in the past, Met
thought, for the Danny Farrows, the future was a refuge. But, unhappy or
not, and despite the sweat, Danny was coping.
Reaching over Danny's shoulder, Mel picked up a direct line phone to Air
Traffic Control. The tower watch chief answered.
"What's the story on that A6reo-Mexican 707?"
"Still there, Mr. Bakersfeld. They've been working a couple of hours
trying to move it. No luck yet."
That particular trouble had begun shortly after dark when an
A6reo-Mexican captain, taxiing out for takeoff, mistakenly passed to the
right instead of left of a blue taxi light. Unfortunately, the ground to
the right, which was normally grass covered, had a drainage problem, due
to be worked on when winter ended. Meanwhile, despite the heavy snow,
there was still a morass of mud beneath the surface. Within seconds of
its wrong-way turn, the hundred and twenty ton aircraft was deeply mired.
When it became obvious that the aircraft could not get out, loaded, under
its own power, the disgruntled passengers were disembarked and helped
through mud and snow to hastily hired buses. Now, more than two hours
later, the big jet was still stuck, its fuselage and tail blocking ninway
three zero.
Mel inquired, "The runway and taxi strip are still out of use?"

"Affirmative," the tower chief reported. "We're holding all outbound
traffic at the gates, then sending them the long route to the other
runways."
"Pretty slow?"
"Slowing us fifty percent. Right now we're holding ten flights for taxi
clearance, another dozen waiting to start engines."
It was a demonstration, Mel reflected, of how urgently the airport needed
additional runways and taxiways. For three years he had been urging
construction of a new runway to parallel three zero, as well as other
operational improvements. But the Board of Airport Commissioners, under
political pressure from downtown, refused to approve. The pressure was
because city councilmen, for reasons of their own, wanted to avoid a new
bond issue which would be needed for financing.
"The other thing," the tower watch chief said, "is that with three zero out
of use, we're having to route takeoffs over Meadowood. The complaints have
started co i g in already."
Mel groaned. The community of Meadowood, which adjoined the southwest
hinits of the airfield, was a constant thom to himself and an impediment to
flight operations. Though the airport had been established long before the
community, Meadowood's residents complained incessantly and bitterly about
noise from aircraft overhead. Press publicity followed. It attracted even
more complaints, with increasingly bitter denunciations of the airport and
its management. Eventually, after long negotiations involving politics,
more publicity and –in Mel Bakerfeld's opinion-gross misrepresentation, the
airport and the Federal Aviation Administration had conceded that jet
takeoffs and landings directly over Meadowood would be made only when
essential in special circumstances. Since the airport was already lim.ited
in its available runways, the loss in efficiency was considerable.
Moreover, it was also agreed that aircraft taking off toward Meadowood
would-almost at once after becoming airborne-follow noise abatement
procedures. This, in turn, produced protests from pilots, who consid-

ered the procedures dangerous. T'he airlines, however –conscious of the
public furor and their corporate images-had ordered the pilots to conform.
Yet even this failed to satisfy the Meadowood residents. Their militant
leaders were still protesting, organizing, and-according to latest
rumors-planning legal harassment of the airport.
Mel asked the tower watch chief, "How many calls bave there been?" Even
before the answer, he decided glumly that still more hours of his working
days were going to be consumed by delegations, argument, and the same
insoluble discussions as before.
"I'd say fifty at least, we've answered; and there've been others we
haven't. The phones start ringing right after every takeoff-our unlisted
lines, too. I'd give a lot to know how they get the numbers."
"I suppose you've told the people who've called that we've a special
situation-the storm, a runway out of use."
"We explain. But nobody's interested. They just want the airplanes to
stop coming over. Some of 'em say that problems or not, pilots are still
supposed to use noise abatement procedures, but tonight they aren't doing
it."
"Good God!-if I were a pilot neither would L" How could anyone of
reasonable intelligence, Mel wondered, expect a pilot, in tonight's
violent weather, to chop back his power immediately after takeoff, and
then go into a steeply banked turn on instruments-which was what noise
abatement procedures called for.
"I wouldn't either," the tower chief said. "Though I guess it depends on
your point of view. If I lived in Meadowood, maybe I'd feel the way they
do."
"You wouldn't live in Meadowood. You'd have listened to the warnings we
gave people, years ago, not to build houses there."
"I guess so. By the way, one of my people told me there's another
community meeting over there tonight."
"In this weather?"
"Seems they still plan to hold it, and the way we heard, they're cooking
up something new."

"Whatever it is," Mel predicted, "we'll hear about it soon."
Just the same, he reflected, if there was a public meeting at Meadowood, it
was a pity to provide fresh ammunition so conveniently. Almost certainly
the press and local politicians would be present, and the direct flights
overhead, however necessary at this moment, would give them plenty to write
and talk about. So the sooner the blocked runway-three zero-was back in
use, the better it would be for all concerned.
"In a little while," he told the tower chief, "I'll go out on the field
myself and see what's happening. I'll let you know what the situation is."
"Right.,~
Changing the subject, Mel inquired, "Is my brother on duty tonight?"
"Affirmative. Keith's on radar watch-west arrival."
West arrival, Mel knew, was one of the tough, tense positions in the tower.
It involved supervising all incoming flights in the west quadrant. Mel
hesitated, then remembered he had known the tower watch chief a long time.
"Is Keith all right? Is he showing any strain?"
There was a slight pause before the answer. "Yes, he is. I'd say more than
usual."
Between the two men was the knowledge that Mel's younger brother had lately
been a source of anxiety to them both.
"Frankly," the tower chief said, "I wish I could let him take things
easier. But I can't. We're short-staffed and everybody is under the gun."
He added, "Including me.9~
"I know you are, and I appreciate your watching out for Keith the way you
have."
"Well, in this job most of us have combat fatigue at one time or another."
Mel could sense the other choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes it shows
up in the mind, sometimes in the gut. Either way, when it happens we try to
help each other."
"Thanks." The conversation had not eased Mel's anxiety. "I may drop in
later."
"Right, sir." Thetower chief hung up.

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

snowfall started. The fact that the pressure had been met made affl the more
irritating a note, delivered to Met by messenger, fifteen minutes ago. The
note read:

M

thought slid warn u-airlines snow committee (on vern demerest's urging
. . . why does your bro-in-law dislike you?) filing critical report
becos runways & taxiways snow clearance (v. d. says) lousy,
inefficient …

report blames airport (meaning u) for main hunk of flight delays …
also claims stuck 707 wouldn't have if taxiway plowed sooner, better.
. . so now all airlines being penalized, etc, etc, you get the drift
… and where are youin one? (drift, i mean) … climb out & buy me
coffee soon.

luv t

The "t" was for Tanya-Tanya Livingston, passenger relations agent for Trans
America , and a special friend of Mel's. Mel read the note again, as he
usually did messages from Tanya, which became clearer the second time
around. Tanya, whose job straddled troubleshooting and public relations,
objected to capitals. ("Mel, doesn't it make sense? If we abolished
capitals there'd be scads less trouble. Just look at the newspapers.") She
had actually coerced a Trans America mechanic into chiseling all capitals
from the typebars of her office typewriter. Someone higher up raised bob
about that, Mel had heard, quoting the airline's rigid rule about willful
damage to company property. Tanya had got away with it, though. She usually
did.
The Vern Demerest in the note was Captain Vernon

Demerest, also of Trans America. As well as being one of the airline's more
senior captains, Demerest was a militant campaigner for the Air Line Pilots
Association, and, this season, a member of the Airlines Snow Committee at
Lincoln International. The committee inspected runways and taxiways during
snow periods and pronounced them fit, or otherwise, for aircraft use. It
always included an active flying captain.
Vernon Demerest also happened to be Mel's brother-in-law, married to Mel's
older sister, Sarah. The Bakersfeld clan, through precedent and marriage,
had roots and branches in aviation, just as older families were once allied
with seafaring. However, there was little cordiality between Mel and his
brother-in-law, whom Mel considered conceited and pompous. Others, he knew,
held the same opinion. Recently, Mel and Captain Demerest had had an angry
exchange at a meeting of the Board of Airport Commissioners, where Demerest
appeared on behalf of the pilots' association. Mel suspected that the
critical snow report-apparently initiated by his brother-in-law-was in
retaliation.
Mel was not greatly worried about the report. Whatever shortcomings the
airport might have in other ways, he knew they were coping with the storm
as well as any organization could. Just the same, the report was a nui-
sance. Copies would go to all airlines, and tomorrow there would be
inquiring phone calls and memos, and a need for explanations.
Mel supposed he had better stay briefed, in readiness. He decided he would
make an inspection of the present snow clearance situation at the same time
that he was out on the airfield checking on the blocked runway and the
mired Afteo-Mexican jet.
At the Snow Desk, Danny Far-row was talking with Airport Maintenance again.
When there was a moment's break, Mel interjected, "I'll. be in the
terminal, then on the field."
He had remembered what Tanya said in her note about having coffee together.
He would stop at his own office first, then, on his way through the
terminal, he would drop by Trans America to see her. The thought excited
him.

2

Mel used the private elevator, which operated by passkey only, to descend
from the tower to the administrative mezzanine. Though his own office
suite was silent, with stenographers' desks cleared and typewriters
covered, the lights had been left on. He entered his own interior office.
From a closet, near the wide mahogany desk he used in daytime, he took out
a heavy topcoat and fur-lined boots.
Tonight Mel himself was without specific duties at the airport. This was
as it should be. The reason he had stayed, through most of the three-day
storm, was to be available for emergencies. Otherwise, he mused, as he
pulled on the boots and laced them, by now he would have been home with
Cindy and the children.
Or would he?
No matter how objective you tried to be, Mel reasoned, it was hard to be
sure of your own real motives. Probably, if it had not been the storm,
something else would have arisen to justify not going. Not going home,
in fact, seemed lately to have become the pattern of his life. His job
was a cause, of course. It provided plenty of reasons to remain extra
hours at the airport, where lately there had been big problems facing
him, quite apart from tonight's imbroglio. But-if he was honest with
himself-the airport also offered an escape from the incessant wrangling
between himself and Cindy which seemed to occur nowadays whenever they
spent time together.
"Oh, hell!" Mel's exclamation cut across the silence of the office.
He plodded in the fur-lined boots toward his desk. A glance at a typed
reminder from his secretary confirmed what he had just recalled. Tonight
there was another of his wife's tedious charity affairs. A week ago,
reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend. It was a cocktail party and
dinner (so the typed note said), downtown at

the swank Lake Michigan Inn. What the charity was, the note didn't specify,
and, if it bad ever been mentioned, be had since forgotten. It made no
difference, though. The causes with which Cindy Bakersfeld involved herself
were depressingly similar. The test of worthiness-as Cindy saw it-was the
social eminence of her fellow committee members.
Fortunately, for the sake of peace with Cindy, the starting time was
late-almost two hours from now and in view of tonight's weather, it might
be even later. So he could still make it, even after inspecting the
airfield. Mel could come back, shave and change in his office, and be
downtown only a little late. He had better warn Cindy, though. Using a
direct outside line, Mel dialed his home number.
Roberta, his elder daughter, answered.
"Hi," Mel said. "This is your old man."
Roberta's voice came coolly down the line. "Yes, I know."
"How was school today?"
"Could you be specific, Father? There were several classes. Which do you
want to know about?"
Mel sighed. There were days on which it seemed to him that his home life
was disintegrating all at once. Roberta, he could tell, was in what Cindy
called one of her snotty moods. Did all fathers, he wondered, abruptly lose
communication with their daughters at age thirteen? Less than a year ago,
the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel
loved both his daughters deeply-Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby.
There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage
had survived. As to Roberta, he had known that as a teen-ager she would
develop interests which he could neither share nor wholly understand. He
had been prepared for this. What he had not expected was to be shut out
entirely or treated with a mixture of indifference and condescension.
Though, to be objective, he supposed the increasing strife between Cindy
and himself bad not helped. Children were sensitive.
"Never mind," Mel said. "Is your mother home?"

"She went out. She said if you phoned to tell you you have to be downtown
to meet her, and for once try not to be late."
Mel curbed his irritation. Roberta was undoubtedly
repeating Cind ' v's words exactly. He could almost hear
his wife saying them.
"If your mother calls, tell her I might have to be a little late, and
that I can't help it." There was a silence, and he asked, "Did you hear
me?"
"Yes," Roberta said. "Is there anything else, Father? I have homework to
do."
He snapped back, "Yes, there is something else. You'll change your tone
of voice, young lady, and show a little more respect. Furthermore, we'll
end this conversation when I'm good and ready."
"If you say so, Father."
"And stop calling me Father!"
"Very well, Father."
Met was tempted to laugh, then supposed he had better not. He asked, "Is
everything all right at home?"
"Yes. But Libby wants to talk to you."
"In a minute. I was just going to tell you-because of the storm I *may
not be home tonight. There's a lot happening at the airport. I'll
probably come back and sleep here."
Again a pause, as if Roberta was weighing whether or not she could get
away with a smart answer: So what else is new? Apparently she decided
not. "Will you speak to Libby now?"
"Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie."
"Goodnight."
There was an impatient shuffle as the telephone changed hands, then
Libby's small breathless voice.
"Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!"
Libby was always breathless as if, to a seven-yearold, life were
excitingly on the run and she must forever keep pace or be left behind.
"Let me think," Mel said. "I know-you had fun in the snow today."
"Yes, I did, But it wasn't that."
"Then I can't guess. You'll have to tell me."

"Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all
the good things we think will happen next month."
He thought affectionately: he could understand Libby's enthusiasm. To
her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which
were not were brushed aside and speedily forgotten. He wondered how much
longer her happy innocence would last.
"That's nice," Mel said. "I like that."
"Daddy, Daddy! Will you help me?"
"If I can."
"I want a map of February."
Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes
seemed more expressive than conventional words. It occurred to him that
he could use a map of February himself.
"There's a calendar in my desk in the den." Mel told her where to find
it and heard her small feet running from the room, the telephone
forgotten. It was Roberta, Mel assumed, who silently hung up.

From the general manager's office suite, Mel walked onto the executive
mezzanine which ran 'the length of the main terminal building. He carried
the heavy topcoat with him.
Pausing, he surveyed the thronged concourse below, which seemed to have
become even busier within the past half-hour. In waiting areas, every
available seat was occupied. Newsstands and information booths were
ringed by crowds, among them many military uniforms. In front of all
airline passenger counters were line-ups, some extending around corners
out of sight. Behind the counters, ticket agents and supervisors, their
normal numbers swelled by colleagues from earlier shifts retained on
overtime, had schedules and passage coupons spread out like orchestral
scores.
Delays and reroutings which the storm had caused were taxing both
scheduling and human patience. Immediately below Met, at Braniff
ticketing, a youngish man with long, blond hair and a yellow scarf was
proclaiming loudly, "You've the effrontery to tell me I must

go to Kansas City to get to New Orleans . You people are rewriting
geography! You're mad with power!"
The ticket agent facing him, an attractive brunette in her twenties,
brushed a band over her eyes before answering with professional patience,
"We can route you directly, sir, but we don't know when. Because of the
weather, the longer way will be faster and the fare is the same. "
Behind the yellow-scarfed man, more passengers with other problems
pressed forward urgently.
At the United counter, a small pantomime was being played. A would-be
passenger-a well-dressed businessman-leaned for-ward, speaking quietly.
By the man's expression and actions, Mel Bakersfeld could guess what was
being said. "I would very much like to get on that next flight."
"I'm sorry, sir, the flight is fully booked. There's also a long standby
. . ." Before the ticket agent could complete his sentence, he glanced
up. The passenger had laid his briefcase on the counter in front of him.
Gently, but pointedly, he was tapping a plastic baggage tag against a
corner of the case. It was a 100,000-Mile Club tag, one of those United
issued to its favored friendsan inner elite which all airlines had helped
create. The agent's expression changed. His voice became equally low. "I
think we'll manage something, sir." The agent's pencil hovered, crossed
out the name of another passenger-an earlier arrival whom he had been
about to put on the flight-and inserted the newcomer's name instead. The
action was unobserved by those in line behind.
The same kind of thing, Mel knew, went on at all airline counters
everywhere. Only the naYve or uninformed believed wait lists and
reservations were operated with unwavering impartiality.
Met observed that a group of new arrivals-presumably from downtown-was
entering the terminal. They were beating off snow from their clothing as
they came in, and judging from their appearance, it seemed that the
weather outside must be worsening. The newcomers were quickly absorbed
in the general crowds.

Few among the eighty thousand or so air travelers who thronged the
terminal daily ever glanced up at the executive mezzanine, and fewer
still were aware of Mel tonight, high above them, looking down. Most
people who thought about airports did so in terms of airlines and
airplanes. It was doubtful if many were even aware that executive offices
existed or that an administrative machine-unseen, but complex and
employing hundreds-was constantly at work, keeping the airport
functioning.
Perhaps it was as well, Mel thought, as he rode the elevator down again.
If people became better informed, in time they would also learn the
airport's weaknesses and dangers, and afterward fly in and out with less
assurance than before.
On the main concourse, he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the
check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. "Evening, Mr.
Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?"
No matter how busy the airport became, Mel thought, there would always
be time for gossip. He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya's had
been linked already.
"Yes," be said. "I was."
The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY.
"You'll find her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld. We just had a bit of a
crisis here. She's taking care of it."

3

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

self comfortable," Tanya said practically, "and take your time. You'll
feel better afterward, and when you're ready we can talk."
Tanya sat down herself, smoothing her trim, tight uniform skirt. There
was no one else in the room, and the only sound-apart from the crying-was
the faint hum of air-conditioning.
There was fifteen years or so difference in age between the two women.
The girl was not much more than twenty, Tanya in her late thirties.
Watching, Tanya felt the gap to be greater than it was. It came, she
supposed, from having been exposed to marriage, even though briefly and
a long time ago-or so it seemed.
She thouorht: it was the second time she had been conscious of her age
today. The first was while combing her hair this morning; she had seen
telltale strands of gray among the short-cropped, flamboyant red. There
was more of the gray than last time she had checked a month or so ago,
and both occasions were reminders that her forties-by which time a woman
ought to know where she was going and why-were closer than she liked to
think about. She had another thought: in fifteen years from now, her own
daughter would be the same age as the girl who was crying.
The girl, whose name was Patsy Smith, wiped reddened eyes with a large
linen handkerchief which Tanya had given her. She spoke with difficulty,
choking back more tears. "They wouldn't talk that way … so mean, rudely
… at home . . . not to their wives."
"You mean passengers wouldn't?"
The girl nodded.
"Some would," Tanya said. "When you're married, Patsy, you may find out,
though I hope not. But if you're telling me that men behave like
adolescent boors when their travel plans get crossed up, I'll agree with
you. 11
"I was doing my best We all were . . . All day today; and yesterday …
the day before … But the way people talk to you . . ."
"You mean they act as if you started the storm yourself. Especially to
inconvenience them."

"Yes … And then that last man … Until him, I was all right . . ."
"What happened exactly? They called me when it was all over."
The girt was beginning to regain control of herself.
"Well … he had a ticket on Flight 72, and that was canceled because of
weather. We got him a seat on 114, and he missed it. He said he was in the
dining room and didn't hear the flight called."
"Flight announcements aren't made in the di i g room," Tanya said. "There's
a big notice saying so, and its on all the menus."
"I explained that, Mrs. Livingston, when he came back from the departure
gate. But he was still nasty. He was going on as if it were my fault he'd
missed the flight, not his. He said we were all inefficient and half
asleep."
"Did you call your supervisor?"
"I tried to, but he was busy. We all were."
"So what did you do?"
"I got the passenger a seat-on the extra section, 2122."
"And?"
"He wanted to know what movie was showing on the flight. I found that out,
and he said he'd seen it. He got nasty again. The movie he'd wanted to see
was on the first flight which was canceled. He said, could I get him
another flivht which was showing the same movie as the first one? All the
time, there were other passengers; they were pressing up a(Zainst the
counter. Some were making remarks out loud about how slow I was. Well, when
he said that about the movie, that was when I The girl hesitated. "I guess
something snapped."
Tanya prompted, "That was when you threw the timetable?"
Patsy Smith nodded miserably. She looked as if she were going to cry again.
"Yes. I don't know what got into me, Mrs. Livingston . . . I threw it right
over the counter. I told him he could fix his own flight."
"All I can say," Tanya said, "is that I hope you hit him."

The girl looked up. In place of tears, there was the beginning of a
smile. "Oh, yes; I did." She thought, then giggled. "You should have seen
his face. He was so surprised." Her expression became serious. "Then,
after that . . ."
"I know what happened after that. You broke down, which was a perfectly
natural thing to do. You were sent in here to finish your cry, and now
you have, you're going home in a taxi."
The girl looked bemused. "You mean … that's all?"
"Certainly it's all. Did you expect us to fire you?"
"I . . . I wasn't sure."
"We might have to," Tanya said, "much as we'd disRe it, Patsy, if you did
the same thing again. But you won't, will you? Not ever."
ne girl shook her head firmly. "No, I won't. I can't explain, but having
done it just once is enough."
"That's the end of it,, then. Except that you might like to hear what
happened after you left."
"Yes, please."
"A man came forward. He was one of those in the line-up, and he said he
heard, and saw, the whole thing. He also said he had a daughter the same
age as you, and ff the first man had talked to his daughter the same way
he talked to you, he would personally have punched him in the nose. Then
the second man-the one from the line-up-left his name and address, and
said if the man you had been talking to ever made any kind of complaint,
to let him know and he would report what really happened." Tanya smiled.
"So, you see-there are nice people, too."
"I know," the girl said. "T'here aren't many, but when you do get one
like that, who's nice to you, and cheerful, you feel you want to hug
him."
"Unfortunately we can't do that, any more than we should throw
timetables. Our job is to treat everyone alike, and be courteous, even
when passengers are not."
"Yes, Mrs. Livingston ."
Patsy Smith would be all right, Tanya decided. Apparently, she hadn't
thought of quitting, as some airls did who suffered simflar experiences.
In fact, now that

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

"Please stay." She smiled a welcome. "We've almost finished."
She watched him as he walked to a chair across the room. He looked tired,
Tanya thought.
She switched her attention back, filled in a voucher, and handed it to the
girl. "Give this to the taxi dispatcher, Patsy, and he'll send you home.
Have a good night's rest, and we'll expect you back tomorrow, bright and
breezy."
When the girl bad gone, Tanya swung her chair around to face Mel's. She
said brightly, "Hullo."
He put down a newspaper he had been glancing at, and grinned. "Hi!"
"You got my note?"
"I came to thank you for it. Though I might have made it here without."
Gesturing to the door through which the girl had gone, he asked, "What was
all that about? Battle fatigue?"
"Yes." She told him what had happened.
Mel laughed. "I'm tired, too. How about sending me off in a taxi?"
Tanya looked at him, inquiringly. Her eyes-a bright, clear blue-had a
quality of directness. Her head was tilted, and an overhead light reflected
red highlights from her bair. A slim figure, yet with a fullness which the
trim airline uniform heightened . . . Mel was conscious, as at other times,
of her desirability and warmth.
"I might consider it," she said. "If the taxi goes to my place, and you let
me cook you dinner. Say, a Lamb Casserole."'
He hesitated, weighing conflicting claims, then reluctantly shook his head.
"I wish I could. But we've some trouble here, and afterward I have to be
downtown." He got up. "Let's have coffee, anyway."
"All right."
Mel held the door open, and they went out into the bustling, noisy main
concourse.
There was a press of people around the Trans America counter, even greater
than when Mel had arrived. "I mustn't take long," Tanya said. "I've stiR
two hours more on duty."

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

Mel grinned. "Candies and wine?"
He had forgotten it would be Sunday. But he would have to come to the
airport anyway because, even if the storm moved on, there would be
aftereffects. As to Cindy, there had been several Sundays when she had been
out, herself, without an announced reason.
Momentarily, Met and Tanya separated as she dodged a hurrying, florid-faced
man, followed by a redcap with a loaded luggage cart, topped by golf clubs
and tennis rackets. Wherever that load was going, Tanya thought enviously,
it was a long way south.
"Okay," she said when they rejoined. "Candles and wine."
As they entered the coffee shop, a pert hostess recognized Mel and ushered
him, ahead of others, to a small table at the rear, marked RESERVED, which
airport officials often used. About to sit down, be stumbled slightly and
grasped Tanya's arm. The observant hostess flicked her eyes over them both
with a half-smfle. Rumor machine, stand by for a bulletin, Tanya thought.
Aloud, she said, "Did you ever see such crowds? This has been the wildest
three days I remember."
Mel glanced around the packed coffee shop, its bedlam of voices punctuated
by the clatter of dishes. He nodded toward the outer door through which
they could both see a moving, surging swarm of people. "If you think this
is a big horde tonight, wait until the civil version of the C-5A goes into
service."
"I know-we can barely cope with the 747s; but a thousand passengers
arriving all at once at a check-in counter … God help us!" Tanya
shuddered. "Can you imagine what it'll be like when they collect their bag-
gage? I don't even want to think about it."
"Nor do a good many other people-who ought to be thinking about it, right
now." He was amused to find that their conversation bad already drifted
into aviation. Airplanes and airlines held a fascination for Tanya, and she
liked talking about them. So did Mel, which was one of the reasons he
enjoyed her company.
"Which people aren't thinking?"
"Those who control policy on the ground-airport

and air traffic. Most are acting as if today's jets will fly forever. They
seem to believe that if everybody keeps quiet and std], the new, big
airplanes will go away and not bother us. That way we needn't have ground
facilities to match them."
Tanya said thoughtfully, "But there's a lot of building at airports.
Wherever you go, you see it."
Mel offered her a cigarette and she shook her head negatively. He lit one
for himself before answering.
"Mostly the building going on is patchwork-changes and additions to
airports built in the 1950s or early '60s. There's little that's farseeing.
There are exceptions – Los Angeles is one; Tampa , Florida , and Dallas-Fort
Worth are others; they'll be the first few airports in the world ready for
the new mammoth jets and supersonics. Kansas City , Houston , and Toronto
look good; San Francisco has a plan, though it may get sunk politicatly. In
North America there's not much else that's impressive."
"How about Europe ?"
"Europe is routine," Mel said, "except for Paris –the new Nord airport to
replace Le Bourget will be among the finest yet. London is the kind of
inefficient mess which only the English can create." He paused, consid-
ering. "We shouldn't knock other countries, though; back home is bad
enough. New York is frightening, even with changes being made at Kennedy;
there simply isn't enough airspace above New York –I'm thinking of traveling
there by train in future. Washington , D.C. , is floundering-Washington
National's a Black Hole of Calcutta ; Dulles was a giant step sideways. And
Chicago will wake up one day to find it let itself get twenty years
behind." fie stopped, considering. "You remember a few years ago, when the
jets first started flying-what conditions were like at airports which had
been designed for DC-4s and Constellations."
"I remember," Tanya said. "I worked at one. On normal days you couldn't
move for the crowds; on busy days you couldn't breathe. We used to say it
was like hoidin(y thc World Series in a sand lot."
,,what's coming in the 1970s," Mel predicted, "is

going to be worse, far worse. And not just people congestion. We'll be
choking on other things, too."
"Such as what?"
"Airways and traffic control for one, but that's another whole story. The
really big thing, which most airport planning hasn't caught on to yet,
is that we're moving toward the day-fast-wben air freight business wfll
be bigger than passenger traffic. The same thing's been true with every
form of transportation, starting with the birchbark canoe. To begin with,
people are carried, plus a little freight; but before long, there's more
freight than people. In airline business we're already closer to that
than is generally known. When freight does get to be top dog-as will
happen in the next ten years or so-a lot of our present airport ideas
will be obsolete. If you want a sign of the way things are moving, watch
some of the young men who are going into airline management now. Not long
ago, hardly anybody wanted to work in air freight departments; it was
backroorn stuff; passenger business had the glamour. Not any more! Now
the bright boys are heading for air freight. They know that's where the
future and the big promotions lie."
Tanya laughed. "I'll be old-fashioned and stick with people. Somehow
freight . . ."
A waitress came to their table. "The special's off, and if we get many
more people in here tonight, there won't be much else either."
They ordered coffee, Tanya cinnamon toast, and Mel a fried egg sandwich.
When the waitress had gone, Mel grinned. "I guess I started to make a
speech. I'm sorry."
"Maybe you need the practice." She regarded him curiously. "You haven't
made many lately."
"I'm not president of the Airport Operators Council any more. I don't get
to Washington as much, or other places either." But it was not the whole
reason for not making speeches and being less in the public eye. He
suspected Tanya knew it.
Curiously, it was a speech of Mel's which had brought them together to
begin with. At one of the rare

interline meetings which airlines held, he had talked about coming
developments in aviation, and the lag in ground organization compared with
progress in the air. He had used the occasion as a dry run for a speech he
intended to deliver at a national forum a week or so later. Tanya had been
among the Trans America contingent, and next day had sent him one of her
lower case notes:

mr. b

spch great. all'v us earthside slaves cheering u 4 admitting airport
policymakers asleep at drawing boards. somebody needed 2 say it. mind
suggestion? wd all be more alive if fewer fax, more abt people….
passenger, once inside belly (airplane or whale, remember jonah?)
thinks only of self, not system much. i'll bet orville/wilbur felt
same way once off ground. wright?

ti

As well as amusing him, the note bad caused him to think. It was true, he
realized-he had concentrated on facts and systems to the exclusion of
people as individuals. He revised his speech notes, shifting the emphasis
as Tanya suggested. The result was the most successful presentation he had
ever made. It gained him an ovation and was widely reported
internationally. Afterward he bad telephoned Tanya tin thank her. That was
when they had started seeing each other.
The thought of Tanya's first message was a reminder of the note she had
sent this evening. "I appreciate that tip about the snow committee report,
though I'm curious how you managed to see it before I have."
"No mystery. It was typed in the Trans America office. I saw our Captain
Demerest checking it, and chortling."
" Vernon showed it to you?"

"No, but he had it spread out, and I'm adept to reading upside down. Which
reminds me, you didn't answer my question: Why does your brother-in-law
dislike you?';
Mel grimaced. "I guess he knows I'm not overly keen on him."
"If you wanted to," Tanya said, "you could tell him now. There's the great
man himself." She nodded toward the cashier's desk, and Mel turned his
head.
Captain Vernon Dernerest of Trans America was counting out change as he
paid a bill. A tall, broadshouldered, striking figure, he towered above
others around him. He was dressed informally in a Harris tweed jacket and
impeccably creased slacks, yet managed to convey an impression of
authority-like a Regular Army General, Mel thought, temporarily in civilian
clothes. Demerest's strong, aristocratic features were unsmiling as he
addressed a four-striper Trans America captain-in uniform-who was with him.
It appeared that Demerest was giving instructions; the other nodded.
Captain Dernerest glanced briefly around the coffee shop and, observing Mel
and Tanya, gave a curt, cool nod. Then, checking his watch, and with a
final word to the other captain, he strode out.
"He appeared in a hurry," Tanya said. "Though wherever fie's going, it
won't be for long. Captain D. is taking Flight Two to Rome tonight."
Mel smiled. "The Golden Argosy?"
"No less. I see, sir, you read our advertising."
"It's hard not to." Mel was aware, as were millions of others who admired
the four-color double-page spreads in Life, Look, the Post, and other
national magazines, that Trans America Fight Two-The Golden Argosy –was the
airline's crack, prestige flight. He also knew that only the line's most
senior captains ever commanded it.
"It seems to be agreed," Mel said, "that Vernon is one of the finest pilots
extant."
"Oh yes, indeed. Extant and arrogant." Tanya hesitated, then confided, "If
you're in a mood for gossip, you aren't alone in not caring for your
brother-in-law. I heard one of our mechanics say not long ago, he was

;orry there weren't propellers any more because he'd always hoped Captain
Dernerest would walk into one."
Mel said sharply, "That's a pretty savage thought."
"I agree. Personally, I prefer what Mr. Youngquist, our president, is
supposed to have said. I understand his instructions about Captain
Demerest are: 'Keep that bumptious bastard out of my hair, but book me
on his flights.' "
Mel chuckled. Knowing both men, he felt sure the sally was true. He
should not have let himself be drawn into a discussion about Vernon
Demerest, he realized, but news of the adverse snow report and the
nuisance effect it would have, still rankled. He wondered idly where his
brother-in-law was going at the moment, and ff it involved one of his
amorous adventures, of which –reportedly-there were a good many. Looking
toward the central lobby, Mel saw that Captain Demerest had already been
swallowed up in the crowds outside.
Across the table, Tanya smoothed her skirt with a swift stroking gesture
which Mel had noticed before and liked. It was a feminine habit and a
reminder that few women looked as good in uniform, which often seemed to
have a de-sexing effect, but with Tanya worked the opposite way.
Some airlines, Mel knew, let their senior passenger agents out of
uniform, but Trans America liked the authority which its jaunty blue and
gold commanded. Two gold rings edged with white, on Tanya's cuffs, pro-
claimed her Job and seniority.
As if surmising his thoughts, she volunteered, "I may be out of uniform
soon."
"Why? 11
"Our District Transportation Manager is being transferred to New York .
The Assistant D.T.M. is moving up, and I've applied for his job."
He regarded her with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. "I believe
you'll get it. And that won't be the end, either."
Her eyebrows went up. "You think I might make vice-president?"

"I believe you could. That is, if it's the kind of thing you want. 1-o
be the lady executive; all that."
Tanya said softly, "I'm not sure if it's what I want, or not."
The waitress brought their order. When they were alone again, Tanya said,
"Sometimes us working girls don't get a lot of choice. If you're not
satisfied to stay in the job you have through pension time-and lots of
us aren't-the only way out is up."
"You're excluding marriage?"
She selected a piece of cinnamon toast. "I'm not excluding it. But it
didn't work for me once, and it may not again. Besides which, there
aren't many takers-eligible ones-for used bride with baby."
"You might find an exception."
"I might win the Irish Sweep. Speaking from experience, Met dear, I can
tell you that men like their women unencumbered. Ask my ex-husband. If
you can find him, that is; I never could."
"He left you after your baby was born?"
"Goodness, no! That way Roy would have had six months of responsibility.
I think it was on a Thursday I told him I was pregnant; I couldn't have
kept it to myself much longer. On Friday when I came home from work,
Roy 's clothes were gone. So was Roy ."
"You haven't seen him since?"
She shook her head. "In the end, it made the divorce much
simpler-desertion; no complications like another woman. I have to be
fair, though. Roy wasn't all bad. He didn't empty our joint checking
account, though he could have. I must admit I've sometimes wondered if
it was kindness, or if he just forgot. Anyway, I had all that eighty
dollars to myself."
Mel said, "You've never mentioned that before."
"Should I have?"
"For sympathy, maybe."
She shook her head. "If you understood me better, you'd know the reason
I'm telling you now is because I don't need sympathy. Everything has
worked out fine." Tanya smiled. "I may even get to be an airline vice-
president. You just said so."

At an adjoining table, a woman said loudly, "Geez! Lookit the time!"
Instinctively, Mel did. It was three quarters of an hour since he had
left Danny Farrow at the Snow Control Desk. Getting up from the table,
he told Tanya, "Don't go away. I have to make a call."
There was a telephone at the cashier's counter, and Met dialed one of the
Snow Desk unlisted numbers. Danny Farrow's voice said, "Hold it," then,
a few moments later, returned on the line.
"I was going to call you," Danny said. "I just had a report on that stuck
707 of A6reo-Mexican."
"Go ahead."
"You knew Mexican had asked TWA for help?"
"Yes. 11

"Well, they've got trucks, cranes, God knows what out there now. The
runway and taxiway are blocked off completely, but they stiff haven't
shifted the damn airplane. The latest word is that TWA has sent for Joe
Patroni."
Met acknowledged, "I'm glad to hear it, though I wish they'd done it
sooner."
Joe Patroni was airport maintenance chief for TWA, and a born
trouble-shooter. He was also a down-toearth, dynamic character and a
close crony of Mel's.
"Apparently they tried to get Patroni right away," Danny said– "But he
was at home and the people here had trouble reaching him. Seems there's
a lot of phone lines down from the storm."
"But he knows now. You're sure of that?"
"TWA's sure. They say he's on his way."
Mel calculated. He knew that Joe Patroni lived at Glen Ellyn , some
twenty-five miles from the airport, and even with ideal driving
conditions the journey took forty minutes. Tonight, with snowbound roads
and crawling traffic, the airline maintenance chief would be lucky to
make it in twice that time.
"If anyone can get that airplane moved tonight," Mel conceded, "it'll be
Joe. But meanwhile I don't want anybody sitting on his hands until he
gets here. Make it clear to everyone that we need runway three zero
usable,

and urgently." As well as the operational need, he remembered unhappily
that flights must still be taking off over Meadowood. He wondered if the
community meeting, which the tower chief had told him about, was yet in
session.
"I've been telling 'em," Danny confirmed. "I'll do it some more. Oh, a
bit of good news-we found that United food truck."
"The driver okay?"
"He was unconscious under the snow. Motor still running, and there was
carbon monoxide, the way we figured. But they got an inhalator on him,
and he'll be all right."
"Good! I'm going out on the field now to do some checking for myself.
I'll radio you from there."
"Wrap up well," Danny said. "I hear it's a lousy night."
Tanya was still at the table when Mel returned, though preparing to go.
"Hold on," he said, "I'm coming, too."
She motioned to his untouched sandwich. "How about dinner? If that's what
it was."
"This will do for now." He bolted a mouthful, washed it down hastily with
coffee, and picked up his topcoat. "Anyway, I'm having dinner downtown."
As Mel paid their check, two Trans America ticket agents entered the
coffee shop. One was the supervising agent whom Mel had spoken to
earlier. Observing Tanya, he came across.
"Excuse me, Mr. Bakersfeld … Mrs. Livingston, the D.T.M.'s looking for
you. He has another problem."
Mel pocketed his change from the cashier. "Let me guess. Somebody else
threw a timetable."
"No, sir." The agent grinned. "I reckon if there's another thrown thiff
evening it'll be by me. This one's a stowaway-on Flight 80 from Los
Angeles."
"Is that all?" Tanya appeared surprised. Aerial stowaways-though all
airlines had them-were seldom a cause of great concern.
"The way I hear it," the agent said, "this one's a dilly. There's been
a radio message from the captain,

and a security guard has gone to the gate to meet the flight. Anyway, Mrs.
Livingston , whatever the trouble is, they're calling for you." With a
friendly nod, he went off to rejoin his companion.
Mel walked with Tanya from the coffee shop into the central lobby. They
stopped at the elevator which would take Mel to the basement garage where
his car was parked.
"Drive carefully out there," she cautioned. "Don't get in the way of any
airplanes."
"If I do, I'm sure you'll hear about it." He shrugged into the heavy
topcoat. "Your stowaway sounds interesting. I'll try to drop by before I
leave, to find out what it's all about." He hesitated, then added, "It'll
give me a reason to see you again tonight."
They were close together. As one, each reached out and their hands touched.
Tanya said softly, "Who needs a reason?"
In the elevator, going down, he could still feel the warm smoothness of her
flesh, and hear her voice.

4

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

Legends had grown up around Joe Patroni; some professional, others
personal.
He had begun his working life as a grease monkey in a garage. Soon after,
he won the garage from his employer in a dice game, so that at the end of
the game they reversed roles. As a result, yotin– Joe became heir to
various bad debts, including one which made him owner of an ancient,
decrepit Waco biplanc. With a mixture of resourcefulness and sheer
mechanical ability, he repaired the airplane, then flew it successfully-
without benefit of flying lessons, which he could not afford.
The airplane and its mechanical functioning absorbed Joe Patroni
completely-so much so, that he enticed his former employer into another
dice game and allowed him to win the garage back. Joe thereupon quit the
garage and took a job as an airline mechanic. He studied at night school,
became a lead mechanic, then a foreman with a reputation as a top-notch
troubleshooter. His crew could change an engine faster than an airplane
manufacturer said it could be done; and with absolute reliability. After a
while, whenever there was pressure, or a difficult repair job, the word
went out: get Joe Patroni.
A contributing reason for his success was that he never wasted time on
diplomacy. Instead, he went directly to the point, both with people and
airplanes. He also had a total disregard for rank, and was equally
forthright with everyone, including the airline's senior executives,
On one occasion, still talked about when airline men reminisced, Joe
Patroni walked off his job and, without word to anyone, or prior
consultation, rode an airplane to New York . He carried a package with him.
On arrival, he went by bus and subway to the airline's Olympian
headquarters in midtown Manhattan where, without announcement or preamble,
he strode into the president's office. Opening the package, he deposited an
ofly, disassembled carburetor on the immaculate presidential desk.
The president, who had never heard of Joe Patroni,

and whom no one ever got to see without prior appointment, was apoplectic
until Joe told him, "If you want to lose some airplanes in fli ght, throw me
out of here. If you don't, sit down and listen."
The president sat down-while Joe Patroni lighted a cigar-and listened.
Afterward, he called in his engineering vice-president who, later still,
ordered a mechanical modification affecting carburetor icing in flight,
which Patroni had been urging-unsuccessfully at lower level-for months.
Later, Patroni received official commendation, and the incident became one
more to add to an already growing fund of Patroni stories. Soon after, Joe
was promoted to senior supervisor, and a few years later was given the
important post of maintenance chief at Lincoln International.
On a personal level, another report said that Joe Patroni made love to his
wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink.
This was true. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone mes-
sa,~e came from the airport about the mired A6reo-Mexican jet which TWA had
been asked to help extricate.
The same rumor continued: Patroni made love the same way he did everything
else-with a long, thin cigar stuck jauntily in the side of his mouth. This
was untrue, at least nowadays. Marie, having coped with several pillow
fires during their early years of marriagedrawing on her training as a TWA
air hostess to extinguish them-had emphatically forbidden any more cigars
in hed. Joe complied with the edict because he loved his wife. He had
reason to. When he married her, she was probably the most popular and
beautiful hostess in the entire airline system, and twelve years and three
children later she could still hold her own with most successors. There
were some who wondered aloud why Marie-who had been pursued ardently by
captains and first officers-had ever chosen Joe Patroni at all. But Joe,
even as a young maintenance foreman, which he was when they met, had a way
with him, and had kept Marie satisfied-in all important ways-ever since.
Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never

panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation,
deciding what priority the emergency rated, and whether or not he should
complete other tasks before coping with it. In the case of the mired 707,
instinct told him it was a moderate– to-acute crisis, which meant there was
time to finish what he was doing, or have dinner, but not both. Accordingly,
he abandoned dinner. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and
threw sandwiches together for Joe to eat during his twenty-five-mfle drive
to the airport. He nibbled on a sandwich now.
Being recalled to the airport after performing a full day's work was not a
new experience, but tonight the weather was worse than any other occasion
he remembered. Accumulated effects of the three-day storm were everywhere,
making driving exacting and hazardous. Huge snowpiles lined the streets
and, in the darkness, more snow was falling. Both on and off freeways,
traffic was moving at a crawl, or not at all. Even with mudsnow tires,
which Patroni's Buick Wildcat had, traction was poor. Windshield wipers and
defrosters were barely coping with gusting snow outside and steam within,
while headlight beams iLluminated only short distances ahead. Stalled
vehicles, some abandoned by their drivers, turned roads into obstacle
courses. It was obvious that only those with good reason would be out on
such a night.
Patroni checked his watch. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead
had been stationary for several minutes. Farther ahead stUl, he could make
out others, also stopped, and to his right was another halted lane of
traffic. Moreover, for some time, no vehicles had come from the opposite
direction, so obviously something had happened to obstruct all four lanes.
If nothing more occurred in the next five minutes, he decided, he would get
out of the car to investigate, though observing the slush, drifts, and
still falling snow outside, he hoped he would not have to. There would be
plenty of time to become cold and miserable-as he was undoubtedly going to
be before the night was out-after arrival at the airport. Meanwhile, he
turned up the volume of the

car radio, which was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and pulled at his
cigar.
Five minutes went by. Ahead, Joe Patroni could see people getting out of
cars and walking forward, and he prepared to join them. He had brought
a fleece-lined parka and pulled it tightly around him, slipping the bood
over his head. He reached for the heavy-duty electric lantern which he
always carried. As he opened the car door, wind and snow rushed in. He
eased out, closing the door quickly.
He plodded forward while other car doors slammed and voices called, "What
happened?" Someone shouted, "There's been an accident. It's a real mess."
As he progressed, flashing lights became visible ahead, and shadows moved
and separated, becoming a cluster of people. A new voice said, "I'm
telling you they won't clear that lot in a hurry. We'll all be stuck here
for hours." A large, darker shadow loomed, partially lighted by
sputtering red flares. It proved to be a massive tractor-trailer unit on
its side. The cumbersome eighteenwheeled vehicle was spread across the
road, blocking all traffic movement. Part of its cargo-apparently cases
of canned goods-had spewed out, and already a few opportunists were
braving the snow and collecting cases, then hurrying with them to their
cars.
Two state police patrol cars were at the scene. State troopers were
questioning the truck driver, who appeared unhurt.
"All I did was touch the goddam brakes," the driver protested loudly.
"Then she jackknifed, and rolled over like a whore in heat."
One of the policemen wrote in his notebook, and a woman murmured to a man
beside her, "Do you think he's putting, that last bit down?"
Another woman shouted, "Lotta good that'll do." Her voice was shrill
against the wind. "Whyn't you cops get this thing moved?"
One of the state troopers walked across. Most of his uniform coat was
already snow-covered. "If you'll give us a hand to lift, madam, we'd be
glad to oblige."

A few people tittered, and the woman muttered, "Smart ass cops."
A tow truck, amber roof-beacon flashing, approached, moving slowly, on the
opposite side of the obstruction. The driver was using the now unoccupied
lanes on what would normally be the wrong side of the road. He stopped and
got out, shaking his head doubtfully as be saw the size and position of the
tractortrailer.
Joe Patroni shoved forward. He puffed on his cigar, which glowed redly in
the wind, and prodded the state trooper sharply on the shoulder. "Listen,
son, you'll never move that ria with one tow truck. It'll be like hitching
a torntit to a brick."
The policeman turned. "Whatever it's like, mister, there's spilled gasoline
around here. You'd better get that cigar out."
Patroni ignored the instruction, as he ignored almost all smoking
regulations. He waved the cigar toward the over-turned tractor-trailer.
"What's more, son, you'd be wasting everybody's time, including mine and
yours, trying to get that hunk of junk right side up tonight. You'll have
to drag it clear so traffic can move, and to do that you need two more tow
trucks-one on this side to push, two over there to pull." He began moving
around, using his electric lantern to inspect the big articulated vehicle
from various angles. As always, when considering a problem, he was totally
absorbed. He waved the cigar once more. "The two trucks together'll hitch
on to three points. They'll pull the cab first, and faster. That'll
overcome the jackknifing. The other truck

"Hold it," the state trooper said. He called across to one of the other
officers. "Hank, there's a guy here sounds like he knows what he's talking
about."
Ten minutes later, working with the police officers, Joe Patroni had
virtually taken charge. Two additional tow trucks, as he had suggested,
were being summoned by radio. While awaiting their arrival, the driver of
the first tow truck was attaching chains, under Patroni's direction, to the
axles of the capsized tractor-trailer. The

situation had already assumed a proficient, get-on-withit pattem-a
trademark of any proceeding in which the energetic TWA maintenance chief
became involved.
Patroni himself had remembered several times, with concern, his reason
for being out at all tonight, and the fact that by now he was long
overdue at the airport. But helping to clear the blocked highway, he
calculated, was the fastest means of getting there. Obviously, his own
car and others could not move forward until the wrecked tractor-trailer
had been dragged clear from the center of the road. To go back and try
an alternate route was equally impossible because traffic behind was
backed up, with continuous lines of vehicles extending –so the police
assured him-for miles to the rear.
He went back to his car to use the radio telephone he had installed at
his employers' suggestion, and for which they picked up the monthly
bills. He called the airline's maintenance department at the airport to
report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld's
message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and
usable.
Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that
the most important thing was to be on the airfield himself as speedily
as possible.
When be left the Buick for the second time, snow was still fallina
heavily. Dodging drifts which had formed around the line of waiting cars,
he returned to the road block at a jog trot and was relieved to see that
the first of the two extra tow trucks had arrived.

5

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

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

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

to city sewers. Most times the procedure worked efficiently, except when
passengers reported losses of items-dentures, purses, wallets, even
shoes-dropped accidentally in aircraft toilets. It happened once or twice
a day. Then loads had to be sifted, while everyone hoped the missing item
could be located quickly.
Even without incidents, Mel realized, this would be a busy night for
sanitary crews. Airport managements knew from experience that demands on
toilet facilities, on the ground and in the air, increased as weather
worsened. Mel wondered how many people were aware that airport sanitary
supervisors received hourly weather forecasts and made their plans-for
extra cleaning and increased supplies-accordingly.
The Air Canada jet he was to follow had cleared the terminal and was
increasing taxi speed. Mel accelerated to keep up. It was reassuring-with
windshield wipers barely coping with the snow-to have the DC-9's tail-
light as a reference point ahead. Through the rear mirror he could make
out the shape of another, larger jet now following. On radio, the ground
controller cautioned, "Air France four-o-four, there is an airport ground
vehicle between you and Air Canada ."
It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three
zero was blocked by the A6reoMexican 707. Before then, Mel had separated
from the stream of taxiing aircraft which were destined for takeoff on
the two other active runways.
He stopped the car and got out. In the dark and loneliness out here, the
storm seemed even more wintry and violent than nearer the terminal. The
wind howled across the deserted runway. If wolves appeared tonight, Mel
thought, it would not be surprising.
A shadowy figure hailed him. "Is that Mr. Patroni?"
"No, it isn't." Mel found that he, too, bad to shout to make himself
heard above the wind. "But Joe Patroni's on the wav."
The otf,(-r man came closer. He was huddled into a parka, his face blue
with cold. "When he gets here, we'll be glad to see him. Though I'm
damned if I know what

Patroni'll do. We've tried about everything to get this bastard out." He
gestured to the airplane looming, shadowy, behind them. "She's stuck, but
good."
Mel identified himself, then asked, "Who are you?"
"Ingram, sir. A6reo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I bad
some other job."
As the two men talked, they moved nearer to the stalled Boeing 707,
instinctively seeking shelter under the wings and fuselage, high above
them. Under the big jet's belly, a red hazard light winked rhythmically,
In its reflection Mel could see the mud beneath snow in which the
aircraft's wheels were deeply mired. On the runway and adjoining taxiway,
clustered like anxious relatives, were a profusion of trucks and service
vehicles, including a fuel tanker, baggage tenders, a post office van,
two crew buses, and a roaring,power cart.
Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. "We need this
runway urgently-tonight. What have you done so far?"
In the past two hours, Ingram reported, old-fashioned boarding ramps had
been trundled from the terminal, manhandled to the aircraft, and
passengers guided down them. It bad been a slow, tricky job because steps
were icing as fast as they were cleared. An elderly woman had been
carried down by two mechanics. Babies were passed from hand to hand in
blankets. Now, all passengers were gone-in buses, along with the
stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer re-
mained.
"Since the passengers left-have you tried to get the airplane moving?"
The foreman nodded affirmatively. "Had the engines running twice. The
captain's put on all the power he dare. But she won't come free. Just
seems to dig herself in deeper."
"What's happening now?"
"We're taking off more weight, hoping that'll. help." Most of the fuel,
Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers-a heavy load since tanks
were full for takeoff. Bag age and freight compartments in the belly had
been
,g emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.

Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post
office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew
exactly where their mailbavs were and, if delays occurred, postal employees
quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded
jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most,
it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate
route.
Mel asked, "Have you all the help you need?"
"Yes. sir-for all we can do now. I've got most of our crew from
A6reo-Mexican here-a dozen men. Right now, half of 'em are thawing out in
one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas
are." Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. "But if you
ask me, it's going to be a long job. and we'll need heavy cranes, jacks,
and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we'd have to
wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow."
Mel said sharply, "It can't take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This
runway has to be cleared . . ." He stopped abruptly, shivering with a
suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie.
Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather-the
fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet,
strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted
to the cold.
From the opposite side of the airfield, above the wind, he could hear the
thunder of jet m(jines. They rose to a crescendo, then diminished as a
flight took off. Another followed, and another. Over there, all was well.
And here?
It was true, was-n't it?-for the briefest instant he had had a premonition.
A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble brewing. He
should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in prag-
matic manaQement. Except that once, long aqo, he had had the selfsame
feeling-a conviction of events accumulating, and progressing to some
disastrous, unenvis-

aged end. Met remembered the end, which he had been unable to avert …
entirely.
He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now, its outline
blurring. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the
inconvenience of takeoffs over Meadowood, the situation was harmless.
There had been a mishap, with no injuries, no apparent damage. Not[iing
more.
"Let's go to my car," he told the A6reo-Mexican foreman. "We'll get on
the radio and find out what's happening."
On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting
impatiently downtown.
Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was
comfortingly warm. Ingram grunted appreciatively. He loosened his coat
and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air.
Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.
"Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I'm at the blocked intersection of three
zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When
coming? Over."
Danny Farrow's voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash. "Snow
Desk to mobile one. Wilco. And, Mel, your wife called."
Mel pressed the mike button. "Did she leave a number?"
"Affirmative."
"Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I'm sorry,
I'll be a little late. But check on Patroni first."
"Understood. Stand by." The radio went silent.
Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them
to Ingram.
"Thanks."
They lit up, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth.
Ingram nodded toward the lighted cockpit of the A6reo-Mexican jet. "Up
there, that son-of-a-bitch of a

captain is probably crying into his sombrero. Next time, he'll watch blue
taxi lights like they was altar candles."
Mel asked, "Are your ground crews Mexicans or American?"
"We're all American. Only meatheads like us would work in this lousy
weather. Know where that flight was going?"
Mel shook his head.
" Acapulco . Before this happened, I'd have given up six months' screwing to
be on it." The foreman chuckled. "Can you imagine, though-getting aboard,
and your ass all settled, then having to get off in th.is. You should have
heard the passengers cursing, especially the women. I learned some new
words tonight."
The radio came alive again.
"Snow Desk to mobile one," Danny Farrow said. "I talked with TWA about Joe
Patroni. They've heard from him, but he's held up in traffic. He'll be
another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me so far?"
"We read," Mel said. "Let's have the message."
"Patroni warns not to get the airplane deeper in the mud than it is
already. Says it can happen easily. So, unless the A6reo-Mexican crowd are
real sure of what they're doing, they should hold off any more tries until
Joe gets there."
Mel glanced sideways at Ingram. "How does the A6reo-Mexican crowd feel
about that?"
The foreman nodded. "Patroni can have all the tries he wants. We'll wait."
Danny Farrow said, "Did you get that? Is it clear?"
Mel thumbed the mike button. "It's clear."
"Okay. There's more. TWA is rounding up some extra ground crew to help.
And, Mel, your wife phoned again. I gave her your message." Mel sensed
Danny hesitating, aware that others whose radios were on the airport
maintenance frequency were listening, too.
Mel said, "She wasn't happy?"
"I guess not." There was a second's silence. "You'd better get to a phone
when you can."
It was a safe bet, Mel thought, that Cindy had been

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

6

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

ground was not yet deep enough to make conditions difficult.
Demerest's destination was a group of three-story apartment blocks, close
to the airport, known colloquially to [lying crews as Stewardess Row. It
was here that many of the stewardesses based at Lincoln International-from
all airlines-maintained apartments. Each apartment was usually shared by
two or three girls, and the initiated also had a name for the individual
m6nages. They were known as stewardess nests.
The nests were often the scene of lively, off-duty parties, and sometimes
headquarters for the amorous affairs which occurred, with predictable
regularity, between stewardesses and male flying crews.
Taken as a whole, the stewardess nests were neither more nor less
freewheeling than other apartments occupied by single girls elsewhere. The
difference was that most of what transpired in the way of swinging, amoral
activities, involved airline personnel.
There was good reason for this. Both the stewardesses and male crew members
whom they met-captains, and first and second officers-were, without ex-
ception, high-caliber people. All had reached their jobs, which many others
coveted, through a tough, exacting process of elimination in which those
less talented were totally eclipsed. The comparative few who remained were
the brightest and best. The result was a broth of sharp, enlightened
personalities with a zest for life and the perceptiveness to appreciate one
another.
Vernon Demerest, in his time, had appreciated many stewardesses, as they
had appreciated him. He had, in fact, had a succession of affairs with
beautiful and intelligent young women whom a monarch or a male movie idol
might well have desired without attaining. The stewardesses whom Dernerest
and fellow pilots knew, and regularly made love to, were neither whores nor
easy lays. They were, however, alive, responsive, and sexually endowed
girls, who valued quality, and took it when so obviously and conveniently
close to hand.
One who had taken it-so to speak-from Vernon Demerest, and seemed inclined
to continue to, was a

vivacious, attractive, English-bom brunette, Gwen Meighen. She was a
farmer's daughter who had left home to come to the United States ten years
earlier at the age of eighteen. Before joining Trans America she was
briefly a fashion model in Chicago . Perhaps because of her varied
background, she combined an uninhibited sexuality in bed with elegance and
style when out of it.
It was to Gwen Meighen's apartment that Vernon Demerest was headed now.
Later tonight, the two of them would leave for Rome on Trans America
Flight Two. On the flight deck, Captain Demerest would command. In the
passenger cabins, aft, Gwen Meighen would be senior stewardess. At the
Rome end of the journey, there would be a three-day layover for the crew,
while another crew-already in Italy for its own layover-would fly the
airplane back to Lincoln International.
The word "layover" had long ago been adopted officially by airlines and
was used deadpan. Possibly, whoever coined the term had a sense of humor;
in any case, flying crews frequently gave it a practical application as
well as its official one. Demerest and Gwen Meighen were planning a
personal definition now. On arrival in Rome , they would leave immediately
for Naples for a forty-eight-hour "layover" together. It was a halcyon,
idyllic prospect, and Vernon Dernerest smiled appreciatively at the
thought of it. He was nearing Stewardess Row, and as be reminded himself
of how well other things had gone this evening, his smile broadened.
He had arrived at the airport early, after leaving Sarah, his wife,
who-placidly as usual-had wished him a pleasant trip. In an earlier age,
Sarah might have busied herself with needlepoint or knitting during her
liege's absence. As it was, he knew that as soon as he had left, she
would become immersed in her curling club, bridge, and amateur oil
painting which were the mainstays of her life.
Sarah Demerest's placidity, and her dullness which naturally went with
it, were qualities her husband had come to accept and, in a perverse way,
valued. Between

flying trips and affairs with more interesting women, he thought of his
sojourns at home, and sometimes spoke of them to intimates, as "going into
the hangar for a stand down." His marriage had another 6onvenience. While it
existed, the women he made love to could become as emotional and demanding
as they liked, but he could never be expected to meet the ultimate demand of
matrimony. In this way, he had a perpetual protection against his own hasty
action in the beat of passion. As to sexual intimacy with Sarah, he still
obliged her occasionally, as one would play "throw the ball" with an old
dog. Sarah responded dutifully, with conventional body heavings and
quickened breath, though he suspected both were more from rote than passion,
and that if they quit copulation entirely she would not be overly concerned.
He was also sure that Sarah suspected his philandering, if not in fact, then
at least by instinct. But, characteristically, she would prefer not to know,
an arrangement in which Vernon Dernerest was happy to cooperate.
Another thinj which bad pleased him this evening was the Airlines Snow
Committee report in which he had delivered a verbal kick in the crotch,
aimed at his stuffed-shirt brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld.
The critical report had been solely Demerest's idea. The other two airline
representatives on the committee had at first taken the view that the
airport management was doing its best under exceptional conditions. Captain
Dernerest argued otherwise. The others had finally gone along with him and
agreed that Dernerest would personally write the report, which he made as
scathing as he could. He had not bothered about accuracy or otherwise of
the indictment; after all, with so much snow around, who could be sure of
anything? He had, however, made certain that the widely circulated report
would cause a maximum of embarrassment and irritation to Mel Bakersfeld.
Copies were now being Xeroxed and would be sent to regional vice-presidents
of all airlines, as well as airline headquarters, in New York and
elsewhere. Knowing how everyone enjoyed finding a scapegoat for

operational delays, Captain Dernerest was confident that telephones and
teletypes would be busy after its receipt.
A revenge, Vernon Dernerest thought pleasurablysmall but satisfying-had
been exacted. Now, perhaps, his limping, quarter-cripple brother-in-law
would think twice before antagonizing Captain Demerest and the Air Line
Pilots Association, as Mel Bakersfeld had presumed to do-in public-two
weeks ago.
Captain Demerest swung the Mercedes into an apartment building parking
lot. He stopped the car smoothly and got out. He was a little early, he
noticed-a quarter of an hour before the time he had said he would collect
Gwen and drive her to the airport. He decided to go up, anyway.
As he entered the building, using the passkey Gwen had given him, he
hummed softly to himself, then smiled, realizing the tune was 0 Sole Mio.
Well, why not? It was appropriate. Naples . . . a warm night instead of
snow, the view above the bay in starlight, soft music from mandolins,
Chianti with dinner, and Gwen Meighen beside him …. all were less than
twenty-four hours away. Yes, indeed!-O Sole Mio. He continued humming it.
In the elevator going up, he remembered another good thing. The flight
to Rome would be an easy one.
Tonight, though Captain Demerest was in command of Flight Two-The Golden
Argosy-he would do little of the work which the flight entailed. The
reason was that he was flying as a line check captain– Another
four-striper captain-Anson Harris, almost as senior as Demerest
himself-had been assigned to the flight and would occupy the command
pilot's left seat. Dernerest would use the right seat-normally the first
officer's position-from where he would observe and report on Captain
Harris's performance.
The check flight arrangement had come up because Captain Harris had
elected to transfer from Trans America domestic operations to
international. However, before flying as a futl-fledged international
captain, he was required to make two flights over an overseas route

with a regular line captain who also held instructor's qualifications.
Vernon Dernerest did.
After Captain Harris's two flights, of which tonight's would be the
second, he would be given a final check by a senior supervisory captain
before being accepted for international command.
Such checks-as well as regular six-monthly check flights, which all
pilots of all airlines were required to undergo-entailed an aerial
scrutiny of ability and flying habits. The checks took place on ordinary
scheduled flights, and the only indication a passenger might have that
one was in progress would be the presence of two four-striper captains
on the flight deck up front.
Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both
regular and special, were usually serious, exacting sessions. The pilots
wanted them that way. Too much was at stake-public safety and high
professional standards-for any mutual back-scratching, or for weaknesses
to be overlooked. A captain being checked was aware that he must measure
up to required standards in aH respects. Failure to do so would mean an
automatic adverse report which, if serious enough, could lead to an even
tougher session with the airline's chief pilot, with the testee's job in
jeopardy.
Yet, while performance standards were not relaxed, senior captains
undergoing flight checks were treated by their colleagues with meticulous
courtesy. Except by Vernon Demerest.
Dernerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to
himself, in precisely the same waylike an errant schoolboy summoned to
the headmaster's presence. Moreover, in the headmaster's role, Dernerest
was officious, arrogant, condescending, and tough. He made no secret of
his conviction that no one else's ability as a pilot was superior to his
own. Colleagues who received this brand of treatment raged inwardly, but
had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one
another that when Demerest's own time came they would give him the
meanest, toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with
a

single consistent result-Vernon Demerest turned in a flawless performance
which could not be faulted.
This afternoon, characteristically, Dernerest prefaced his check session
by telephoning Captain Anson Harris at home. "It'll be a bad night for
driving," Dernerest said without preamble. "I like my crew to be
punctual, so I suggest you allow plenty of time to get to the airport."
Anson Harris, who in twenty-two unblemished years with Trans America had
never been late for a single flight, was so outraged, he almost choked.
Fortunately, before Harris could get any words out, Captain Demcrest hung
up.
Still fuming, but to make absolutely sure that Derncrest would not catch
him out, Captain Harris had arrived at the airport almost three hours
ahead of flight time instead of the usual one hour. Captain Demerest,
fresh from his stint with the Airlines Snow Committee, bad encountered
Harris in the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop. Demerest was wearing a sports
jacket and slacks; he kept a spare uniform in his airport locker and
planned to change into it later. Captain Harris, a graying, grizzled
veteran whom many younger pilots addressed as "sir," was in Trans America
uniform.
"Hi, Anson." Vernon Demerest dropped into an adjoining seat at the
counter. "I see you took my good advice."
Captain Harris's grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly, but all he
said was, "Good evening, Vern."
"We'll start the pre-flight briefing twenty minutes earlier than usual,"
Demerest said. "I want to check your flight manuals."
Thank God, Harris thought, his wife had gone through his manuals only
yesterday, inserting the very latest amendments. But he bad better check
his mail slot in the dispatch office. This bastard was likely to fault
him for not making an amendment published only this afternoon. To give
his hands-which were itchingsomething to do, Captain Harris filled and
lit his pipe.
He was aware of Vernon Demerest looking at him critically.

"You're not wearing a regulation shirt."
For a moment, Captain Harris could not believe his colleague was serious.
Then, as he realized he was, Harris's face suffused a deep plum red.
Regulation shirts were an irritant to Trans America pilots, as they were
to pilots of other airlines. Obtainable through company sources, the
official shirts cost nine dollars each, and were often ill fitting, their
material of dubious quality. Though contrary to regulations, a much
better shirt could be purchased independently for several dollars less,
with the difference in appearance scarcely noticeable. Most pilots bought
the tmofficial shirts and wore them. Vernon Demerest did too. On several
occasions Anson Harris had heard Demerest speak disdainfully of the
company's shirts and point to the superior quality of his own.
Captain Dernerest motioned to a waitress for coffee, then reassured
Harris, "It's all right. I won't report on your wearing a non-reg shirt
here. As long as you change it before you come on my flight."
Hold on! Anson Harris told himself. Dear God in heaven, give me strength
not to blow, which is probably what the ornery son-of-a-bitch wants. But
why? Why?
All right. All right, he decided; indignity or not, he would change his
unofficial shirt for a regulation one. He would not give Demerest the
satisfaction of having a single miniscule check point on which to fault
him. It would be difficult to get a company shirt tonight. He would
probably have to borrow one-exchange shirts with some other captain or
first officer. When he told them why, they would hardly believe him. He
hardly believed it himself.
But when Demerest's own check flight came up the next, and all others
from this moment on … let him beware. Anson Harris had good friends
among the supervisory pilots. Let Demerest be wearing a regulation shirt;
let him hew to regulations in every other trifling way … or else. Then
Harris thought glumly: The foxy bastard wil I remember; he'll make sure
he does.
"Hey, Anson!" Dernerest seemed amused. "You've bitten off the end of your
pipe."

And so he had.
Remembering, Vernon Demerest chuckled. Yes, it would be an easy flight
tonight-for him.
His thoughts returned to the present as the apartment block elevator
stopped at the third floor. He stepped into the carpeted corridor and
turned to the left familiarly, heading for the apartment which Gwen
Meighen shared with a stewardess of United Air Lines. The other girl,
Dernerest knew because Gwen had told him, was away on an overnight
flight. On the apartment door bell he tapped out their usual signal, his
initials in Morse … dit-dit-dit-dah dah-dit-dit . . . then went in,
using the same key which opened the door below.
Gwen was in the shower. He could hear the water running. When he went to
her bedroom door, she called out, " Vernon , is that you?" Even competing
with the shower, her voice-with its flawless English accent, which he
liked so much– sounded mellow and exciting. He thought: Small wonder Gwen
had so much success with passengers. He had seen them appear to melt-the
men especial ly-when her natural charm was turned toward them.
He called back, "Yes, boney."
Her filmy underthings were laid out on the bed-panties, sheer nylons; a
transparent bra, flesh colored, with a girdle of the same material; a
French silk, hand-embroidered slip. Gwen's uniform might be standard, but
beneath it she believed in expensive individuality. His senses quickened;
he moved his eyes away reluctantly.
"I'm glad you came early," she called again. "I want to have a talk
before we leave."
"Sure, we've time."
"You can make tea, if you like."
"Okay.,,
She had converted him to the English habit of tea at all times of (lay,
though he had scarcely ever drunk tea at all until knowing Gwen. But now
he often asked for it at home, a request which puzzled Sarah,
particularly when he insisted on it being correctly made-the pot warmed
first, as Gwen had taught him, the water still boiling at the instant it
touched the tea.

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

7

T'he blustering, biting wind across the airfield was as strong as ever,
and still driving the heavily falling snow before it.
Inside his car, Mel Bakersfeld shivered. He was heading for runway one
seven, left, which was being plowed, after leaving runway three zero and
the stranded A6reo-Mexican jet. Was the shivering due to the cold
outside, Mel wondered, or to memory, which the scent of trouble a few
minutes ago, plus the nagging reminder from the old injury of his foot,
had triggered?
The injury had happened sixteen years ago off the coast of Korea when Mel
had been a Navy pilot flying fighter missions from the carrier Essex.
Through the previous twelve hours (he remembered clearly, even now) he
had had a presentiment of trouble coming. It wasn't fear-like others, he
had learned to live with that; rather, a conviction that something
fateful, possibly final, was moving inexorably toward him. Next day, in
a

dogfight with a MIG-15, Mel's Navy F9F-5 had been shot down inio the sea.
He managed a controlled ditching, but though unhurt himself, his left
foot was trapped by a jammed rudder pedal. With the airplane sinking
fast-an F9F-5 had the floating characteristics of a brick-Mel used a
survivalkit hunting knife to slash desperately, wildly, at his foot and
the pedal. Somehow, underwater, his foot came free. In intense pain,
half-drowned, he surfaced.
He had spent the next eight hours in the sea before being picked up,
unconscious. Later he learned he had severed the ligaments in front of
his ankle, so that the foot extended from his leg in an almost straight
line.
In time, Navy medics repaired the foot, though Mel had never flown-as a
pilot-since then. But at intervals the pain still returned, reminding him
that long ago, as on other later occasions, his instinct for trouble had
been right. He had the same kind of instinct now.
Handling his car cautiously, being careful to retain his bearinp in the
darkness and restricted visibility, Mel was nearing runway one seven,
left. This was the runway which, the tower chief had indicated, Air
Traffic Control would seek to use when the wind shifted as was forecast
to happen soon.
At the moment, on the airfield, two runways were in use: one seven,
right, and runway two five.
Lincoln International had five runways altogether. Through the past three
days and nights they had represented the front line of the battle between
the airport and the storm.
The longest and widest of the five was three zero, the runway now
obstructed by A6reo-Mexican. (With a change of wind and an aircraft
approaching from the opposite direction, it could also be runway one two.
The figures indicated compass headings of 300 and 120 degrees.) This
runway was almost two miles long and as wide as a short city block; an
airport joke claimed that one end could not be seen from the other
because of the earth's curvature.
Each of the other four runways was half a mile or so shorter, and less
wide.

Without ceasing, since the storm began, the miles of runways had been
plowed, vacuumed, brushed, and sanded. The motorized equipment-several
million dollars' worth of roaring diesels-had stopped only minutes at a
time, mainly for refueling or relieving crews. It was work which air
travelers never saw at close hand because no aircraft used a
fresh-cleared runway until the surface had been inspected and declared
safe. Standards were exacting. Half an inch of slush or three inches of
powdery snow were maximums allowable for jets. More than that would be
sucked into engines and endanger operation.
It was a pity, Me] Bakersfeld reflected, that runway snow teams were not
more on public view. The sight was spectacular and stirring. Even now,
in storm and darkness, approaching the massed equipment from the rear,
the effect was impressive. Giant columns of snow cascaded to the right
in arcs of a hundred and fifty feet. The arcs were framed in vehicle
searchlights, and shimmered from the added color of some twenty revolving
beacons-one on the roof of each vehicle in the group.
Airport men called the group a Conga Line.
It had a head, a tail, a body, and an entourage, and it progressed down
a runway with the precision of choreography.
A convoy leader was the head. He was a senior foreman from airport
maintenance and drove an airport car-bright yellow, like all other
equipment in the Line. The leader set the Conga Line pace, which was
usually fast. He had two radios and remained permanently in touch with
the Snow Desk and Air Traffic Control. By a system of lights, he could
signal drivers followinggreen for "speed up," amber for "maintain pace,"
red for "slow down," and flashing red for "stop." He was required to
carry in his head a detailed map of the airport, and must know precisely
where he was, even on the darkest night, as now.
Behind the convoy leader, its driver, like an orchestra's first
violinist, was the number one plow-tonight a mammoth Oshkosh with a big
main blade ahead, and a wing blade to the side. To the rear of number one
plow,

and on its right, was number two. The first plow heaved the snow aside;
the second accepted the load from the first and, adding more, heaved both
lots farther.
Then came a Snowbiast, in echelon with the plows, six hundred roaring
horsepower strong. A Snowblast cost sixty thousand dollars and was the
Cadillac of snow clearance. With mighty blowers it engulfed the snow
which both plows piled, and hurled it in a herculean arc beyond the
runway's edge.
In a second echelon, farther to the right, were two more plows, a second
Snowblast.
After the plows and Snowblasts came the gradersfive in line abreast, with
plow blades down to clear any mounds the front plows missed. The graders
towed revolving brushes, each sixteen feet wide and independently diesel
powered. The brushes scoured the runway surface like monstrous yard
brooms.
Next were sanders. Where the eleven vehicles ahead had cleared, three
hulking FWD trucks, with hoppers holding fourteen cubic yards apiece,
spread sand out evenly.
ne sand was special. Elsewhere around the airport, on roadways and areas
which the public used, salt was added to the sand as a means of melting
ice. But never for aeronautical areas. Salt corroded metal, shortening
its life, and airplanes were treated with more respect than cars.
Last in the Conga Line itself-"tail-end Charlie"was an assistant foreman
in a second car. His job was to insure that the line stayed intact and
to chivvy stragglers. He was in radio touch with the convoy leader, often
out of sight ahead in snow and darkness.
Finally came the entourage-a standby plow, in case one faltered in the
Line; a service truck with a detail of mechanics; refueling
tankers-diesel and gasoline; and –when summoned by radio at appointed
times-a coffee and doughnut wagon.
Mel accelerated around the entourage and positioned his car alongside the
assistant foreman's. His arrival was noticed. He heard the convoy leader
notified by radio, "Mr. Bakersfeld just joined us."

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

The assistant foreman, carrying a hand searchlight and leaning against
the wind, preceded Mel past the now stationary lines of sand trucks and
brushes. Mel observed that already fresh snow was starting to cover the
runway area cleared only moments ago, To the rear, a figure ducked from
a service truck and hastened to Mel's car.
"Better hurry, Mr. B. It's only a short stop." The young Negro flashed
his light at the Snowblast cab, then held it steady, illuminating the
way, as Mel clambered up. High above, the Snowblast driver opened the cab
door and held it while Mel eased inside. On the way up, his impaired foot
pained him sharply, but there was no time to wait. Ahead, the flashing
red lights had already changed to green, and presumably the two
approaching aircraft had now landed and were past the intersection. The
Conga Line must hurry across before the next landing, perhaps only a
minute or two away. Glancing to the rear, Mel could see the assistant
foreman sprinting back toward his tail-end-Charlic car.
The Snowblast was already moving, picking up speed with a deep-throated
roar. Its driver glanced sideways as Mel slipped into one of the two
soft, padded seats.
"Hi, Mr. Bakersfeld."
"How are you, Will'?" Mel recognized the man, who, when there was no snow
emergency, was employed by the airport as a payroll clerk.
"I'm pretty good, sir. Tired some."
The driver was holding position carefully behind the third and fourth
plows, their beacon lights just visible. Already the Snowblast's huge
auger blades were engorging snow, cramming it to the blower. Once more,
a continuous white stream was arcing outward, clear of the runway.
Up here was like the bridge of a ship. The driver held his main control
wheel lightly, like a helmsman. A multitude of dials and levers, glowing
in the darkness, were arranged for fingertip control. Circular,
high-speed windshield wipers-as on a ship-provided ports of clear vision
through encrusted snow.

guess everyone's tired," Mel said. "AJI I can tell you is that this can't
last forever."
He watched the for-ward speed needle climb-from twenty-five to thirty,
thirty to thirty-five. Swinog in his seat, Mel surveyed outside. From this
position, at the center of the Conga Line, he could see the lights and
shapes of the other vehicles. He noted approvingly that the formation was
exact.
A few years ago, in a storm like this, an airport would have closed
completely. Now it didn't, mainly because ground facilities-in this one
area-had caught up with progress in the air. But of how many areas of
aviation could the same thing be said? Mel reflected ruefully: very few.
"Oh, well," the driver said, "it makes a change from
working an adding machine, and the longer this keeps
up, the more extra pay there'll be when it's over." He
touched a lever, tilting the cab forward to inspect the
auger blades. With another control he adjusted the
blades, then releveled the cab. "I don't have to do this;
you know that, Mr. Bakersfeld, I volunteer. But I kinda
like it out here. It's sort of He hesitated. "I
dunno."
Mel suggested, "Elemental?"
"I guess so." The driver laughed. "Maybe I'm snow happy."
"No, Will, I don't believe you are." Mel swung forward, facing the way the
Conga Line was moving. It was elemental here. More to the point, amid the
airfields loneliness there was a feeling of closeness to aviation, the real
aviation which in its simplest sense was man against the elements. You lost
that kind of feeling if you stayed too long in terminals and airline office
buildings; there, the extraneous, non-essential things confused you. Maybe
all of us in aviation management, Mel thought, should stand at the distant
end of a runway once in a while, and feel the wind on Our faces. It could
help to separate detail from fundamentals It might even ventilate our
brains as well.
Sometimes in the past Mel had gone out onto the airfield when he needed to
think, to reason quietly and

alone. He had not expected to tonight, but found himself doing so now . .
wondering, speculating, as he had so often in recent days, about the
airport's future and his own.

8

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

pressed, shoes shined, or even die and have his burial arranged by Holy
Ghost Memorial Gardens which maintained a sales office on the lower
concourse.
Judged by its terminal alone, the airport was still spectacular. Where its
deficiencies lay were in operating areas, notably runways and taxiways.
Few of the eighty thousand passengers who flew in and out each day were
aware of how inadequate-and therefore hazardous-the runway system had
become. Even a year previously, runways and taxiways were barely
sufficient; now, they were dangerously over-taxed. In normally busy
periods, on two main runways, a takeoff or landing occurred every thirty
seconds. The Meadowood situation, and the consideration the airport showed
to community residents, made it necessary, at peak periods, to use an
alternative runway which bisected one of the other two. As a result,
aircraft took off and landed on converging courses, and there were moments
when air traffic controllers held their breath and prayed. Only last week
Keith Bakersfeld, Mel's brother, had predicted grimly, "Okay, so we stay on
our toes in the tower, and we cope with the hairy ones, and we haven't
brought two airplanes together at that intersection yet. But someday
there'll be a second's inattention or misjudgment, and one of us will. I
hope to God it isn't me because when it happens it'll be the Grand Canyon
all over again."
The intersection Keith had spoken of was the one which the Conga Line had
just passed over. In the cab of the Snowblast, Mel glanced to the rear. The
Conga Line was weU clear of the intersection now, and, through a momentary
gap in the snow, airplane navigation lights were visible on the other
runway, moving swiftly as a flight took off. Then, incredibly, there were
more lights only a few yards behind as another flight landed, it seemed at
the same instant.
The Snowblast driver had turned his head also-. He whistled. "Those two
were pretty close."
Mel nodded. They had been close, exceptionally so, and for an instant his
flesh had prickled with alarm. Obviously, what had happened was that an air
traffic

controller, instructing the pilots of both airplanes by radio, had cut
tolerances exceedingly fine. As usual, the controller's skilled judgment
had proven right, though only just. The two flights were safe-one now in
the air, the other on the ground. But it was the need for a multiplicity
of such hairbreadth judgments which created an unceasing hazard.
Mel bad pointed out the hazard frequently to the Board of Airport
Commissioners and to members of City Council, who controlled airport
financing, As well as immediate construction of more runways and taxi-
ways, Mel had urged purchase of additional land around the airport for
long term development. There had been plenty of discussion, and sometimes
angry argument, as a result. A few Board and Council members saw things
the way Mel did, but others took a strongly counter view. It was hard to
convince people that a modern jetport, built in the late 1950s, could so
quickly have become inadequate to the point of danger. It made no
difference that the same was true of other centers-New York, San
Francisco, Chicago, and elsewhere; there were certain things which
politicians simply did not want to see.
Mel thought: maybe Keith was right. Perhaps it would take another big
disaster to arouse public awareness, just as the 1956 Grand Canyon
disaster had spurred President Eisenhower and the Eighty-fourth Congress
to revamp the airways. Yet, ironically, there was seldom any difficulty
in getting money for non-operational improvements. A proposal to
triple-deck all parking lots had won city approval without dissent. But
that was something which the public-including those who had votes-could
see and touch. Runways and taxiways were different. A single new runway
cost several million dollars and took two years to build, yet few people
other than pilots, air traffic controllers, and airport management, ever
knew how good or bad a runway system was.
But at Lincoln International a showdown was coming soon. It had to. In
recent weeks, Mel had sensed the signs, and when it happened the choice
would be clear