Airport

And yet …
As if sorreone else were speaking, Keith asked, "You mean tell you here?
Now?"
Mel urged, "Why not?"
Why not indeed? Something within Keith stirred; a sense of waating to
unburden, even though in the end it could chanve nothing … Or could it?
Wasn't that what the Confes~ional was all about; a catharsis, an exorcism
of sin through acknowledgment and contrition? The difference, of course,
was that the Confessional gave forgiveness and expiation, and for Keith
there could be

no expiation-ever. At least . . . he hadn't thought so. Now he wondered
what Mel might say.
Somewhere in Keith's mind a door, which had been closed, inched open.
"I suppose there's no reason," he said slowly, "why I shouldn't tell you.
It won't take long."
Mel remained silent. Instinct told him that if wrong words were spoken
they could shatter Keith's mood, could cut off the confidence which
seemed about to be given, which Mel had waited so long and anxiously to
hear. He reasoned: if he could finally learn what bedeviled Keith,
between them they might come to grips with it. Judging by his brother's
appearance tonight, it had better be soon.
"You've read the testimony," Keith said. His voice was a monotone. "You
just said so. You know most of what happened that day."
Mel nodded.
"What you don't know, or anybody knows except me; what didn't come out
at the inquiry, what I've thought about over and over . . ." Keith
hesitated; it seemed as if he might not continue.
"For God's sake! For your own reason, for Natalie's sake, for mine-go
on!"
It was Keith's turn to nod. "I'm going to."
He began describing the morning at Leesburg a year and a half before; the
air traffic picture when he left for the washroom; supervisor Perry
Yount; the trainee controller left in immediate charge. In a moment,
Keith thought, he would admit how he had loitered; how he failed the
others through indifference and negligence; how he returned to duty too
late; how the accident, the multiple tragedy of the Redferns' deaths, had
been solely his own doing; and how others were blamed. Now that at last
he was doing what he had longed to, without knowing it, there was a sense
of blessed relief. Words, like a cataract long damned, began tumbling
out.
Mel listened.
Abrup0y, a door farther down the corridor opened. A voice-he towe)– watch
chief's-called, "Oh, Mr. BakersfelV'

His footstcps echoing along the corridor, the tower chief walke(; toward
them. "Lieutenant Ordway has been trying to reach you, Mr. Bakersfeld;
so has the Snow Desk. They both want you to call." He nodded. "Hi,
Keith!"
Mel wantod to cry out, to shout for silence or delay, plead to be alone
with Keith for a few minutes more. But he knew it was no good. At the
first sound of the tower chief's voice Keith had stopped in mid-sentence
as if a switch were snapped to "off."
Keith had not, after all, reached the point of describing his own guilt
to Mel. As he responded automatically to the tower chief's greeting, he
wondered: Why had be begun at all? What could he have hoped to gain?
There could never be any gain, never any forgetting. No confession-to
whomever made-would exorcise memory. Momentarily he had grasped at what
he mistook for a faint flicker of hope, even perhaps reprieve. As it had
to be, it proved illusory. Perhaps it was as well that the interruption
occurred when it did.
Once more, Keith realized, a mantle of loneliness, like an invisible
thick curtain, surrounded him. Inside the curtain he was alone with his
thoughts, and inside his thoughts was a private torture chamber where no
one, not even a brother, could reach through.
From that torture chamber . . . waiting, always waiting . . . there could
be only one relief. It was the way be bad already chosen, and would carry
through.
"I guess they could use you back inside, Keith," the tower watch chief
said. It was the gentlest kind of chiding. Keith had already had one
work-break tonight; another inevitably threw a heavier load on other
people. It was also a reminder to Mel, perhaps unintended, that as
air-port general manager his writ did not run here.
Keith mumbled something and gave a distant nod. With a serise of
helplessness, Mel watched his brother return to the radar room. He had
heard enough to know that it was desperately important he should hear
more. He wondc~red when that would be, and how. A few minutes ago he had
broken through Keith's reserve, his

secrecy. Would it happen again? With despair, Mel doubted it.
For sure, there would be no more confidences from Keith tonight.
"I'm sony, Mr. Bakersfeld." As if belatedly guessing Mel's thoughts, the
tower chief spread his hands. "You try to do the best for everybody. It
isn't always easy."
"I know." Met felt like sighing, but restrained himself. When something
like this happened, you could only hope for the right occasion to occur
again; meanwhile you got on with other things you had to do.
"Tell me, please," Mel said, "what were those mes
sages again' ' "'
The tower chief repeated them.
Instead of telephoning the Snow Control Desk, Mel walked down one floor of
the control tower and went in. Danny Farrow was still presiding over the
busy snow clearance command console.
There was a query about priorities in clearing the aircraft parking areas
of competing airlines, which Mel settled, then checked on the situation
concerning the blocked runway, three zero. There was no change, except that
Joe Patroni was now on the airfield and had taken charge of attempts to
move the mired A6reoMexican 707, which was still preventing the runway
being used. A few minutes earlier, Patroni had reported by radio that he
expected to make a new attempt to move the aircraft within an hour. Knowing
Joe Patroni's reputation as a top-notch troubleshooter, Mel decided there
was nothing to be gained by demanding a more detailed report.
At the Snow Desk Mel remembered the message to call Police Lieutenant
Ordway. Assuming that the lieutenant was still in the terminal, Mel had him
paged and, a few moments later, Ordway came on the line. Mel expected the
lieutenant's call to be about the anti-noise delegation of Meadowood
residents. It wasn't.
"The Meadowood people are starting to come in, but they haven't been a
problem and they haven't asked for you yet," Ned Ordway said when Mel
raised the question. "I'll let you know when they do."

What he had called about, the policeman reported, was a woman who had
been picked up by one of his men. She was crying, and apparently
wandering aimlessly in the main terminal. "We couldn't get any sense out
of her, but she wasn't doing anything wrong so I didn't want to take her
to the station house. She seemed upset enough without that."
"What did you do?"
Ordway said apologetically, "There aren't many quiet places around here
tonight, so I put her in the anteroom outside your office. I thought I'd
let you know in case you got back and wondered."
"That's all right. Is she alone?"
"One of my men was with her, though he may have left by now. But she's
harmless; I'm sure of that. We'll check on her again soon."
"I'll be back at my office in a few minutes," Mel said. "I'll see if I
can do any good myself." He wondered if he would have more success
talking with the unknown woman than he had had with Keith; he doubted if
he could do worse. The thought of Keith, who seemed close to breaking
point, still troubled Mel deeply.
As an afterthought, he asked, "Did you find out the woman's name?"
"Yes, we got that much. It's a Spanish-sounding name. Just a minute; I
have it written down."
There was a pause, then Lieutenant Ordway said, "Her name is Guerrero.
Mrs. Inez Guerrero."

Tanya Livingston said incredulously, "You mean Mrs. Quonsc-tt's aboard
Flight Two?"
"I'm afraid there's no doubt of it, Mrs. Livingston. There was a little
old lady, exactly the way you've described her." The gate agent who had
supervised boarding of The Golden Argosy was in the D.T.M.'s office with
Tanya and young Peter Coakley, the latter still mortified at having been
bamboozled by Mrs. Ada Quonsett while she was in his charge.
The gate agent had come to the office a few minutes ago in response to
Coakley's telephoned warning, to all

Trans America gate positions, about the elusive Mrs. Quonsett.
"It just didn't occur to me there was anything wrong," the gate agent
said. "We let other visitors aboard tonight; they came off." He added
defensively, "Anyway, I'd been under pressure all evening. We were short
staffed, and apart from the time you were there helping, I was doing the
work of two people. You know that."
"Yes," Tanya said, "I know." She had no intention of passing out blame.
If anyone was responsible for what had happened, it was Tanya herself.
"It was just after you left, Mrs. Livingston. The old lady said something
about her son, I think it was, leaving his wallet. She even showed it to
me. It bad money in it, she said, which was why I didn't take it."
"She'd already figured that. It's one of her regular gags.11
"I didn't know it, so I let her go aboard. From then until a few minutes
ago when I got the phone call, I never gave her another thought."
"She fools you," Peter Coakley said. He gave a sideways glance at Tanya.
"She sure fooled me."
The agent shook his head. "If I didn't have to believe it, I wouldn't,
even now. But she's aboard, all right." He described the discrepancy
between the tourist section head count and the ticket tally, then
afterward, the ramp supervisor's decision to let the aircraft go, rather
than incur further delay.
Tanya said quickly, "I suppose there's no doubt Flight Two's already
taken off."
"Yes, they have. I checked on my way here. Even if they hadn't, I doubt
they'd bring the aircraft back in, especially tonight."
"No they wouldn't." Nor was there the slightest chance, Tanya knew, of
The Golden ^qosy changing course and returning for a landing, merely
because of Ada Quonsett. The time and cost to disembark one stowaway
would run to thousands of dollars-far more than to take Mrs. Quonsett to
Rome and bring her back.

"Is there a refueling stop?" Sometimes, Tanya knew, Europe-bound flights
made non-scheduled stops for fuel at Montreal or Newfoundland. If so,
there would be a chance to pull Mrs. Quonsett off, robbing her of the
satisfaction of getting all the way to Italy.
"I asked Operations about that," the agent answered. "The flight plan
shows they're going right through. No stops."
Tanya exclaimed, "Damn that old woman!"
So Ada Quonsett was going to get her ride to Italy and back, with
probably a night's lodging in between, and with meals supplied-all at
airline expense, Tanya thought angrily: she had underestimated the old
lady's determination not to be sent back to the West Coast; she had erred
also in assuming that Mrs. Quonsett would head only for New York.
Barely fifteen minutes earlier Tanya had thought of the developing
contest between herself and Ada Quonsett as a battle of wits. If it was,
without doubt the little old lady from San Diego had won.
With uncharacteristic savageness, Tanya wished that the airline would
make an exception and prosecute Mrs. Quonsett. But she knew they
wouldn't.
Young Peter Coakley started to say something.
Tanya snapped, "Oh, shut up!"
The District Transportation Manager returned to his office a few minutes
after Coakley and the gate agent left. The D.T.M., Bert Weatherby, was
a hard-working, bard-driving executive in his late forties, who had come
up the hard way, beginning as a ramp baggage handler. Normal.ly
considerate, and with a sense of humor, tonight he was tired and testy
from three days of continuous strain. He listened impatiently to Tanya's
report in which she accepted the main responsibility herself, mentioning
Peter Coakley only incidentally.
Running a hand through his sparse graying bair, the D.T.M. observed, "I
like to check that there's still some left up there, It's things like
this that are making the rest of it fall out." He considered, then
rasped, "You got us into this mess; you'd better do the salvaging. Talk
to Flight Dispatch; ask them to call the captain of Flight

Two on company radio and fiR him in on what happened. I don't know what
he can do. Personally, I'd like to throw the old hag out at thirty
thousand feet, but that'll be up to him. By the way, who is the captain?"
"Captain Demerest."
The D.T.M. groaned. "It would be. He'll probably think it's all a great
joke because management boobed. Anyway, advise him the old biddy's to be
detained on board after landing, and is not to be allowed off without
escort. If tMe Italian authorities want to jail her, so much the better.
Then get a signal off to our station manager in Rome. When they arrive
it'll be his baby, and I hope he's got more competent people around him
than I have."
"Yes, sir," Tanya said.
She started to tell the D.T.M. of the other matter concerning Might
Two-the suspicious-looking man with an attach6 case whom Customs
Inspector Standish had seen going aboard. Before she could finish, the
D.T.M. cut her off.
"Forget it! What do the Customs people want us to do-their job? As long
as the airline's not involved, I don't give a damn what the guy's
carrying. If Customs here want to know what's in his case, let them ask
Italian Customs to check, not us. I'll be damned if I'll interrogate, and
maybe offend, a fare-paying passenger for something that's none of our
business."
Tanya hesitated. Something about the man with the attach6 case-even
though she hadn't actually seen him –bothered her. There were instances
she had heard of where … Of course, the idea was absurd …
"I was wondering," she said. "He might not be smuggling at all."
The D.T.M. snapped, "I said forget it."
Tanya left. Back at her desk, she began writing the message to Captain
Dernerest of Hight Two concerning Mrs. Ada Quonsett

2

In a taxi en route to the airport from downtown, Cindy Bakersfeld leaned
back against the rear seat and closed her eyes. She was neither aware, nor
cared, that outside it was still snowing, nor that the taxi was moving
slowly in heavy traffic. She was in no hurry. A wave of physical pleasure
and contentment (Was the right word euphoria? Cindy wondered) swept over
her.
The cause was Derek Eden.
Derek Eden, who had been at the Archidona Relief Fund cocktail party
(Cindy still didn't know which Archidona); who had brought her a
triple-strength Bourbon, which she hadn't drunk, then had propositioned
her in the most unimaginative way. Derek Eden, until today only a
slightly known Sun-Times reporter with a second-grade by-line; Derek Eden
with the dissolute face, the casual air, the nondescript impressed
clothes; Derek Eden and his beat-up filthy-inside-andout Chevrolet; Derek
Eden, who had caught Cindy in a barriers-down moment, when she needed a
man, any man, and she hadn't hoped for much; Derek Eden who had proved
to be the finest and most exciting lover she had ever known.
Never, never before had Cindy experienced anyone like him. Oh, God!, she
thought; if ever there was sensual, physical perfection, she attained it
tonight. More to the point; now that she had known Derek Eden … dear
Derek … she wanted him again-often. Fortunately, it was unmistakable
that he now felt the same way about her.
Still leaning back in the rear of the taxi, she relived mentally the past
two hours.
They had driven, in the awful old Chevrolet, from the Lake Michigan Inn
to a smallish hotel near the Merchandise Mart. A doorman accepted the car
disdainfully –Derek Eden didn't seem to notice-and inside, in the

lobby, the night manager was waiting. Cindy gathered that one of the phone
calls which her escort had made was to hcre. There was no formality of
checking in, and the night manager showed them directly to a room on the
eleventh floor. After leaving the key, and with a quick "goodnight," he
left.
The room was so-so; old fashioned, spartan, and with cigarette bums on
the furniture, but clean. It had a double bed. Beside the bed, on a
table, was an unopened bottle of Scotch, some mixes and ice. A card on
the liquor tray read, "With the manager's compliments"; Derek Eden
inspected the card, then put it in his pocket.
When Cindy inquired, later on, Derek explained, "Sometimes a hotel will
oblige the press. When they do, we don't make any promises; the paper
wouldn't go for it. But maybe sometimes a reporter or a deskman will put
the hotel's name in a story if it's an advantage; or if the story's a bad
one-like a death; hotels hate thatwe might leave it out. As I say, no
promises. You do the best you can."
They had a drink, and chatted, then another, and during the second drink
he began to kiss her. It was soon after that she became aware of the
gentleness of his hands, which he passed through her hair quite a lot to
begin with, in a way which she could feel through her entire body; then
the hands began exploring slowly, oh, so slowly … and it was also then
that Cindy began to realize this might be something special.
While he was undressing her, demonstrating a finesse which he had lacked
earlier, he whispered, "Don't let's hurry, Cindy-either of us." But soon
after, when they were in bed, and wonderfully warm, as Derek Eden
promised in the car they would be, she had wanted to hurry, and cried
out, "Yes, yes! … Oh, please! I can't wait!" But he insisted gently,
"Yes, you can. You must." And she obeyed him, being utterly, deliciously
in his control, while he led her, as if by the hand like a child, close
to the brink, then back a pace or two while they waited with a feeling
like floating in air; then near once more, and back, and the same again
and again, the bliss of it all near-unendurable; and finally when neither

of them could wait longer, there was a shared crescendo like a hymn of
heaven and a thousand sweet symphonies; and if Cindy had been able to
choose a moment for dying, because nothing afterward could ever be that
moment's equal, she would have chosen then.
Later, Cindy decided that one of the things she liked about Derek Eden
was his total lack of humbug. Ten minutes after their supreme moment, at
a point where Cindy's normal breathing was returning and her heart
regaining its regular beat, Derek Eden propped himself on an elbow and
lighted cigarettes for them both.
"We were great, Cindy." He smiled. "Let's play a return match soon, and
lots of others after that." It was, Cindy realized, an admission of two
things: that what they had experienced was solely physical, a sensual ad-
venture, and neither should pretend that it was more; yet together they
had attained that rare Nirvana, an absolute sexual compatibility. Now,
what they had available, whenever needed, was a private physical
paradise, to be nurtured and increasingly explored.
The arrangement suited Cindy.
She doubted if she and Derek Eden would have much in common outside a
bedroom, and he was certainly no prize to be exhibited around the social
circuit. Without even thinking about it, Cindy knew she would have more
to lose than gain by being seen publicly in Derek's company. Besides, he
had already intimated that his own marriage was solid, though Cindy
guessed he wasn't getting as much sex at home as he needed, a condition
with which she sympathized, being in the same situation herself.
Yes, Derek Eden was someone to be treasured-but not to become involved
with emotionally. She would treasure him. Cindy resolved not to be
demanding, nor let their love-making become too frequent. A single ses-
sion like tonight's would last Cindy a long time, and could be relived
just by thinking about it. Play a little hard-to-get, she told herself;
see to it that Derek Eden went on wanting her as much as she wanted him.
That way, the whole thing could last for years.
Cindy's discovery of Derek had also, in a strange

way, provided her with a freedom she had not possessed before.
Now that she had better-than-average sex available as it were, on a
separate shelf, she could view the choice between Mel and Lionel Urquhart
more objectively.
Her marriage to Mel had, in some ways, already terminated. Mentally and
sexually they were estranged; their slightest disagreement resulted in
bitter quarreling. All that Mel appeared to think about nowadays was his
damned airport. Each day, it seemed, thrust Mel and Cindy farther apart.
Lionel, who was satisfactory in all respects except in bed, wanted
divorces all around so that he could marry Cindy.
Mel detested Cindy's social ambitions. Not only would he do nothing to
advance them; he impeded them. Lionel, on the other hand, was well
established in Illinois society, saw nothing unusual in Cindy's social
aims and would, and could, help her fulfill them.
Until now, Cindy's choice had been complicated by the remembrance of her
fifteen years of marriage to Mel and the good times together, mental and
physical, they had once enjoyed. She had hoped vaguely that the past