Airport

she admitted to herself, a delusive hope.
Lionel, as a sexual partner, had little or nothing to offer. Neither-at
least for Cindy, any more-had Mel.
But if sex were eliminated-an elimination which Derek Eden, like a
secretly stabled stallion, had now made possible-Lionel, as a competitor
to Mel, came out far ahead.
In the taxi, Cindy opened her eyes and mused.
She wouldn't make any firm decision until she had talked with Mel. Cindy
didn't like decisions, anyway, and invariably put them off until they
could be delayed no longer. Also, there were still imponderables in-
volved: the children; memories of the years with Mel, which hadn't all
been bad; and when you once cared deeply for someone, you never shook it
off entirely. But

she was glad she had decided, after all, to come out here tonight.
For the first time since leaving downtown Cindy leaned forward, peering
out into the darkness to see if she could determine where they were. She
couldn't. Through misted windows she could see snow and many other cars,
all moving slowly. She guessed they were on the Kennedy Expressway, but
that was all.
She was aware of the cab driver's eyes watching her in his rear-view
mirror. Cindy had no idea what kind of man the driver was; she hadn't
taken notice when she got into the cab back at the hotel, which she and
Derek left separately since they decided they might as well start being
discreet immediately. Anyway, tonight all faces and bodies merged into
the face and body of Derek Eden.
"That's Portage Park over there, madam," the driver said. "We're getting
close to the airport. Won't be long."
"Thank you."
"Lotsa traffic going out there besides us. Guess those airport people
must have had their problems, what with the big storm and all."
Who the hell cares?, Cindy thought. And didn't anyone ever think or talk
of anything besides that cruddy airport? But she kept quiet.
At the main terminal entrance Cindy paid off the cab and hurried inside
to avoid wet snow which gusted under canopies and swirled along
sidewalks. She threaded the crowds in the main concourse, moving around
one sizable group which seemed to intend some kind of demonstration
because several people were helping assemble a portable public address
system. A Negro police lieutenant, whom Cindy had met several times with
Mel, was talking to two or three men from the group who appeared to be
leaders. The policeman was shaking his head vigorously. Not really
curiousnothing about this place really interested her-Cindy moved on,
heading for the airport administrative offices on the mezzanine.
Lights were on in all the offices, though most were unoccupied and there
was none of the clatter of type-

writers or hum of conversation, as during daytime working hours. At least
some people, Cindy thought, had sense enough to go home at night.
The only person in sight was a middle-aged woman, in drab clothes, in the
anteroom to Mel's office. She was seated on a settee from where she
seemed to be looking vacantly into space, and took no notice as Cindy
came in. The woman's eyes were red as if she had been crying. Judging by
her clothes and shoes, which were sodden, she had been outside in the
storm.
Cindy gave the other woman only a mildly curious glance before going into
Mel's office. The office was empty, and Cindy sat down in a chair to
wait. After a few moments she closed her eyes and resumed her pleasant
thoughts about Derek Eden.
Mel hurried in-he was limping more than usual, Cindy noticed-about ten
minutes later.
"Oh!" He appeared surprised when he saw Cindy, and went back to close the
door. "I really didn't think you'd come."
"I suppose you'd have preferred me not to."
Mel shook his head. "I still don't think there's anything to be gained
by it-at least, not for what you seem to have in mind." He looked at his
wife appraisingly, wondering what her real purpose was in coming here
tonight. He had learned long ago that Cindy's motives were usually
complicated, and frequently quite different from what they appeared to
be. He had to admit, though, that she looked her best tonight; positively
glamorous, with a kind of radiance about her. Unfortunately, the glamour
no longer affected him personally.
"Suppose you tell. me," Cindy said, "what you think I have in mind."
He shrUgged. "I got the impression that what you wanted was a fight. It
occurred to me that we had enough of them at home without arranging
another here."
"Perhaps we'll have to arrange something here; since you're hardly ever
home any more."

"I might be home, if the atmosphere were more congenial."
They had been talking for just a few seconds, Cindy realized, and already
were sniping at each other. It seemed impossible nowadays for the two of
them to hold a conversation without that happening.
Just the same, she could not resist answering, "Oh, really! That isn't
usually the reason you give for not being at home. You're always claiming
how all-fired important it is for you to be here at the airport-if
necessary, twenty-four hours a day. So many important things-or so you
say-are always happening."
Mel said curtly, "Tonight they are."
"But not other times?"
"If you're asking whether I've sometimes stayed here in preference to
coming home, the answer's yes."
"At least this is the first time you've been honest about it."
"Even when I do come home, you insist on dragging me to some stupid
stuffed-shirt affair like tonight's."
His wife said angrily, "So you never did intend to come tonight!"
"Yes, I did. I told you so. But…"
"But nothing!" Cindy could feel the short fuse of her temper burning.
"You counted on something turning up to prevent you, the way it always
does. So that you could weasel out and have an alibi; so you could
convince yourself, even if you don't convince me, because I think you're
a liar and a fake."
"Take it easy, Cindy."
"I won't take it easy."
They glared at each other.
What happened to them, Met wondered, that they had come to
this?-squabbling like ill-bred children; dealing in pettiness; exchanging
vicious gibes; and in all of it, he himself no better than Cindy.
Something happened when they quarreled which demeaned them both. He
wondered if it was always this way when things were sour with two people
who had lived together for a long time. Was it because they knew, and
therefore could probe painfully, each other's weaknesses? He had once

heard someone say that a disintegrating marriage brought out the worst in
both partners. In his own and Cindy's case it was certainly true.
He tried to speak more reasonably. "I don't think I'm a liar, or a fake.
But maybe you have a point about my counting on something turning up,
enough to keep me away from the social things, which you know I hate. I
just hadn't thought of it that way."
When Cindy remained silent, he went on, "You can believe it or not, but
I did intend to meet you tonight downtown-at least I think so. Maybe I
didn't really, the way you said; I don't know. But I do know that I
didn't arrange the storm, and, since it started, a lot of things have
happened that-for real this time-have kept me here." He nodded toward the
outer office. "One of them is that woman sitting out there. I told Lieu-
tenant Ordway I'd talk to her. She seems to be in some sort of trouble."
"Your wife's in trouble," Cindy said. "The woman out there can wait."
He nodded. "All right."
"We've had it," Cindy said. "You and me. Haven't we?"
He waited before answering, not wanting to be hasty, yet reali7ing that
now this had come up, it would be foolish to avoid the truth. "Yes," he
said finally. "I'm afraid we have."
Cindy shot back, "If only you'd change! If you'd see things my way. It's
always been what you want to do, or don't. If you'd only do what I want.
. . "
"Like being out six nights a week in black tie, and white tie on the
seventh?"
"Well, why not?" Emotionally, imperiously, Cindy faced him. He bad always
admired her in that kind of spunky mood, even when it was directed at
himself. Even now …
"I guess I could say the same kind of thing," he told her. "About
changing; all that. The trouble is, people don't change-not in what they
are basically; they adapt. It's that-two people adapting to each other-
that marriage is supposed to be about."

"The adapting doesn't have to be one-sided."
"It hasn't been with us," Mel argued, "no matter what you think. I've
tried to adapt; I guess you have, too. I don't know who's made the most
effort; obviously I think it's me, and you think it's you. The main thing
is: though we've given it plenty of time to work, it hasn't."
Cindy said slowly, "I suppose you're right. About the last bit, anyway.
I've been thinking the same way too." She stopped, then added, "I think
I want a divorce."
"You'd better be quite sure. It's fairly important." Even now, Mel
thought, Cindy was hedging about a decision, waiting for him to help her
with it. If what they bad been saying were less serious, he would have
smiled.
"I'm sure," Cindy said. She repeated, with more conviction. "Yes, I'm
sure."
Mel said quietly, "Then I think it's the right decision for us both."
For a second Cindy hesitated. "You're sure, too?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm sure."
The lack of argument, the quickness of the exchange, seemed to bother
Cindy. She asked, "Then we've made a decision?"
"Yes .11

They still faced each other, but their –anger was gone.
"Oh hell!" Mel moved, as if to take a pace forward. "I'm sorry, Cindy."
"I'm sorry, too." Cindy stayed where she was. Her voice was more assured.
"But it's the most sensible thing, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Yes. I guess it is."
It was over now. Both knew it. Only details remained to be attended to.
Cindy was already making plans. "I shall have custody of Roberta and
Libby, of course, though you'll always be able to see them. I'll never
be difficult about that."
"I didn't expect you would be."
Yes, Mel mused, it was logical that the girls would go

with their mother. He would miss them both, Libby especially. No outside
meetings, however frequent, could ever be a substitute for living in the
same house day by day. He remembered his talks with his younger daughter
on the telephone tonight; what was it Libby had wanted the first time? A
map of February. Well, he had one now; it showed some unexpected detours.
"And I'll have to get a lawyer," Cindy said. "I'll let you know who it
is."
He nodded, wondering if all marriages went on to terminate so
matter-of-factly once the decision to end them had been made. He supposed
it was the civilized way of doing things. At any rate, Cindy seemed to
have regained her composure with remarkable speed. Seated in the chair
she had been occupying earlier, she was inspecting her face in a compact,
repairing her make-up. He even had the impression that her thoughts had
moved away from here; at the comers of her mouth there was the hint of
a smile. In situations like this, Mel thought, women were supposed to be
more emotional than men, but Cindy didn't show any signs of it, yet he
himself was close to tears.
He was aware of sounds-voices and people moving –in the office outside.
There was a knock. Mel called, "Come in."
It was Lieutenant Ordway. He entered, closing the door behind him. When
he saw Cindy, he said, "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Bakersfeld."
Cindy glanced up, then away, without answering. Ordway, sensitive to
atmosphere, stood hesitantly. "Perhaps I should come back."
Mel asked, "What is it, Ned?"
"It's the anti-noise demonstration; those Meadowood people. There are a
couple of hundred in the main concourse; more coming in. They all wanted
to see you, but I've talked them into sending a delegation, the way you
suggested. They selected half a dozen, and there are three newspaper
reporters; I said the reporters could come too." The policeman nodded
toward the anteroom. "They're all waiting outside."

He would have to see the delegation, Mel knew. He had never felt less
like talking to anyone.
"Cindy," he pleaded, "this won't take long. Will you wait?" When she
didn't answer, he added, "Please!"
She continued to ignore them both.
"Look," Ordway said, "if this is a bad time, I'll tell these people
they'll have to come back some other day."
Mel shook his head. The commitment had been made; it was his own
suggestion. "You'd better bring them in." As the policeman turned away,
Mel added, ,, Oh, I haven't talked to that woman … I've f orgotten her
name."
"Guerrero," Ordway said. "And you don't have to. She looked as if she was
leaving when I came in."
A few moments later the half dozen people from Meadowood-four men and two
women-began filing in. The press trio followed. One of the reporters was
from the Tribune-an alert, youngish man named Tomlinson who usually
covered the airport and general aviation beat for his paper; Mel knew him
well and respected his accuracy and fairness. Tomlinson's by-line also
appeared occasionally in national magazines, The other two reporters were
also known slightly to Melone a young man from the Sun-Times, the other
an older woman from a local weekly.
Through the open door-way, Mel could see Lieutenant Ordway talking to the
woman outside, Mrs. Guerrero, who was standing, fastening her coat.
Cindy remained where she was.
"Good evening." Mel introduced himself, then motioned to settees and
chairs around his office. "Please sit down."
"Okay, we will," one of the men in the delegation said. He was
expensively well-dressed, with precisely combed, graystreaked hair, and
seemed to be the group's leader. "But I'll tell you we're not here to get
cozy. We've some plain, blunt things to say and we expect the same kind
of answers, not a lot of doubletalk."
"I'll try not to give you that. Will you teU me who you are?"

"My name is Elliott Freemantle. I'm a lawyer. I represent these people,
and all the others down below."
"All right, Mr. Freemantle," Mel said. "Why don't you begin?"
The door to the anteroom was still open. The woman who had been outside,
Mel noticed, had gone. Now, i,led Ordway came in, closing the office
door.

3

Trans Amcrica Airlines Flight Two was twenty minutes out of Lincoln
International, and in a steady climb which would continue until reaching
thirty-three thousand feet near Detroit, in eleven more minutes. Already
the flight was on its airway and great circle course for Rome. For the
past several minutes the aircraft had been in smooth air, the storm clouds
and accompanying turbulence now far below. A three-quarter moon hung above
and ahead like a lopsided lantern; all around, the stars were sharp and
clear.
On the flight deck, initial pressures were over. Captain Harris had made
a progress announcement to the passengers over the p.a. system. The three
pilots were settling down to routines of their long flight.
Under the second officer's table, behind Captain Harris and Demerest, a
chime sounded loudly. At the same instant, on a radio panel forward of
the throttles, an amber light winked on. Both chime and light indicated
a radio call on Selcal radio system through which most airliners could
be called individually, as if by private telephone. Each aircraft, of
Trans America and other major airlines, had its own separate call code,
transmitted and received automatically. The signals which had just been
actuated for aircraft N-731-TA would be seen or heard on no other flight.

Anson Harris switched from the radio to which be bad been listening on
air route control frequency, and acknowledged, "This is Trans America
Two."
"Flight Two, this is Trans America dispatcher, Cleveland. I have a
message for the captain from D.T.M., LIA. Advise when ready to copy."
Vernon Demerest, Harris observed, had also changed radio frequencies. Now
Demerest pulled a notepad toward him and nodded.
Harris instructed, "We're ready, Cleveland. Go ahead."
The message was that which Tanya Livingston had written concerning Flight
Two's stowaway, Mrs. Ada Quonsett. As it progressed, with the description
of the little old lady from San Diego, both captains began smihng. The
message ended by asking confirmation that Mrs. Quonsett was aboard.
"We will check and advise," Harris acknowledged. When the transmission
ended, he clicked the radio controls back to air route control frequency.
Vernon Demerest, and Second Officer Jordan who had heard the message from
an overhead speaker near his seat, were laughing aloud.
The second officer declared, "I don't believe it!"
"I believe it." Demerest chuckled. "All those boobs on the ground, and
some ancient old duck fooled them all!" He pushed the call button for the
forward galley phone. "Hey!" he said, when one of the stewardesses
answered. "Tell Gwen we want her in the office."
He was still chuckling when the flight deck door opened. Gwen Meighen
came in.
Demerest read Gwen the Selcal message with Mrs. Quonsett's description.
"Have you seen her?"
Gwen shook her head. "I've hardly been back in tourist yet."
"Go back," Dernerest told her, "and see if the old woman's there. She
shouldn't be hard to spot."
"If she is, what do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. Just come back and report."
Gwen was gone only a few minutes. When she returned, she was laughing Re
the others.

Dernerest swung around in his seat. "Is she there?"
Gwen nodded. "Yes, in seat fourteen-B. She's just the way the message
said, only more so."
The second officer asked, "How old?"
"At least seventy-five; probably nearer eighty. And she looks like
something out of Dickens."
Over his shoulder, Anson Harris said, "More like Arsenic and Old Lace."
"Is she really a stowaway, Captain?"
Harris shrugged. "On the ground they say so. And I guess it explains why
your head count was wrong."
"We can easily find ou ' t for sure," Gwen volunteered. "All I have to
do is go back again and ask to see her ticket counterfoil."
"No," Vernon Demerest said. "Let's not do that."
As best they could in the darkened cockpit, the others regarded him
curiously. After a second or so, Harris returned his eyes to the flight
instruments; Second Officer Jordan swung back to his fuel charts.
"Hold on," Demerest told Gwen. While she waited, he made a check point
report on company radio.
"All we were told to do," Dernerest said when he had finished the report,
"was to see if the old lady's aboard. Okay, she is; and that's what I'll
tell Flight Dispatch. I guess they'll have someone waiting for her at
Rome; we can't do anything about that, even if we wanted to. But if the
old girl's made it this far, and since we're not turning back, why make
her next eight hours miserable? So leave her alone. Maybe, just before
we get to Rome, we'll let her know she's been found out; then it won't
be a whole big shock. But for the time being, let her enjoy her flight.
Give Grandma some dinner, and she can watch the movie in peace."
"You know," Gwen said; she was watching him thoughtfully. "There are
times when I quite like

you.11
As Gwen left the flight deck, Demerest-still chuckling-changed radio
channels and reported back himself to the Cleveland dispatcher.
Anson Harris, who had his pipe alight, looked up from adjusting the
auto-pilot and said drily, "I didn't

think you were much of a one for the old ladies." He emphasized the "old."
Demerest grinned, "I prefer younger ones."
"So I'd lieard."
The stowaway report, and his reply, had put Demerest in a thoroughly good
humor. More relaxed than earlier, he added, "Opportunities change. Pretty
soon you and I will have to settle for the not-so-young ones."
"I already have." Harris puffed at his pipe. "For quite some time."
Both pilots had one earpiece of their radio headsets pushed upward. They
could converse normally, yet hear radio calls if any came in. The noise
level of the flight deck-per,~istent but not overwhelming-was sufficient to
give the two of them privacy.
"You've always played it straight down the line, haven't you?" Demerest
said. "With your wife, I mean. No mucking around; on layovers I've seen you
reading books."
This time Harris grinned. "Sometimes 1 go to a movie."
"Any special reason?"
"My wife was a stewardess-on DC-4s; that was bow we met. She knew what went
on: the sleeping around, pregnancies, abortions, all that stuff. Later, she
got to be a super-visor and had to deal with a lot of it in her job.
Anyway, when we were married I made her a promise –the obvious one. I've
always kept it."
"I guess all those kids you had helped."
"Maybe."
Harris made another minute adjustment to the autopilot. As they talked, the
eyes of both pilots, out of training and habit, swept the illuminated banks
of instruments in front of them, as well as those to each side and above.
An incorrect instrument reading would show at once if anything in the
aircraft was malfunctioning. Nothing was.
Demerest said, "How many children is it? Six?"
"Seven." Harris smiled. "Four we planned, three we didn't. But it all
worked out."

"The ones you didn't plan-did you ever consider doing anything about
them? Before they were born."
Harris glanced sharply sideways. "Abortion?"
Vernon Demerest had asked the question on impulse. Now he wondered why.
Obviously, his two conversations earlier with Gwen had begun the train
of thought about children generally. But it was uncharacteristic of him
to be doing so much thinking about somethinglike an abortion for
Gwen-which was essentially simple and straightforward. Just the same, be
was curious about Harris's reaction.
"Yes," Dernerest said. "That's what I meant."
Anson Harris said curtly, "The answer's no." Less sharply, he added, "It
happens to be something I have strong views about."
"Because of religion?"
Harris shook his head negatively. "I'm an agnostic."
"What kind of views, then?"
"You sure you want to hear?"
"It's a long night," Dernerest said. "Why not?"
On radio they listened to an exchange between air route control and a TWA
flight, Paris-bound, which had taken off shortly after Trans America
Flight Two. The TWA jet was ten miles behind, and several thousand feet
lower. As Flight two continued to climb, so would TWA.
Most alert pilots, as a result of listening to other aircraft
transmissions, maintained a partial picture of nearby tralfic in their
minds. Demerest and Harris both added this latest item to others already
noted. When the ground-to-air exchange ended, Dernerest urged Anson
Harris, "Go ahead."
Harris checked their course and altitude, then began rcfffling his pipe.
"I've studied a lot of history. I got interested in college and followed
through after. Maybe you've done the same."
"No," Demerest said. "Never more than I had to."
"Well, if you go through it all-history, that is-one thing stands out.
Every bit of human progress has happened for a single, simple reason: the
elevation of the

status of the individual. Each time civilization has stumbled into another
age that's a little better, a bit more enlightened, than the one before
it, it's because people cared more about other people and respected them
as individuals. When they haven't cared, those have been the times of
slipping backward. Even a short world history-if you read one-will prove
it's true."
"I'll take your word for it."
"You don't have to. There are plenty of examples. We abolished slavery
because we respected individual human life. For the same reason we
stopped hanging children, and around the same time we invented habeas
corpus, and now we've created justice for all, or the closest we can come
to it. More recently, most people who think and reason are against
capital punishment, not so much because of those to be executed, but for
what taking a human life-any human life-does to society, which is all
of us."
Harris stopped. Straining forward against his seat harness, he looked
outward from the darkened cockpit to the night surrounding them. In
bright moonlight he could see a swirl of darkened cloudtops far below.
With a forecast of unbroken cloud along the whole of their route until
mid-Atlantic, there would be no glimpses tonight of lights on the ground.
Several thousand feet above, the lights of another aircraft, traveling
in an opposite direction, flashed by and were gone.
From his seat behind the other two pilots, Second Officer Cy Jordan
reached forward, adjusting the throttle settings to compensate for Flight
Two's increased altitude.
Demerest waited until Jordan had finished, then protested to Anson
Harris, "Capital punishment is a long way from abortion."
"Not really," Harris said. "Not when you think about it. It all relates
to respect for individual human life; to the way civilization's come, the
way it's going. The strange thing is, you hear people argue for abolition
of capital punishment, then for legalized abortion in the same breath.
What they don't see is the anomaly of

raising the value of human life on one hand, and lowering it on the
other."
Demerest remembered what he had said to Gwen this evening. He repeated
it now. "An unborn child doesn't have life-not an individual life. It's
a fetus; it isn't a person."
"Let me ask you something," Harris said. "Did you ever see an aborted
child? Afterward, I mean."
"No."
"I did once. A doctor I know showed it to me. It was in a glass jar, in
formaldehyde; my friend kept it in a cupboard. I don't know where he got
it, but he told me that if the baby had lived-not been aborted-it would
have been a normal child, a boy. It was a fetus, all right, just the way
you said, except it had been a human being, too. It was all there;
everything perfectly formed; a good-looking face, hands, feet, toes, even
a little penis. You know what I felt when I saw it? I felt ashamed; I
wondered where the hell was 1; where were all other decent-minded,
sensitive people when this kid, who couldn't defend himself, was being
murdered? Because that's what happened; even though, most times, we're
afraid to use the word."
"Hell! I'm not saying a baby should be taken out when it's that far
along."
"You know something?" Harris said. "Eight weeks after conception,
everything's present in a fetus that's in a full-term baby. In the third
month the fetus looks like a baby. So where do you draw the line?"
Demerest grumbled, "You should have been a lawyer, not a pilot." Just the
same, he found himself wondering how far Gwen was along, then reasoned:
if she conceived in San Francisco, as she assured him, it must be eight
or nine weeks ago. Therefore, assuming Harris's statements to be true,
there was almost a shaped baby now.
It was time for another report to air route control. Vernon Demerest made
it. They were at thirty-two thousand feet, near the top of their climb,
and in a moment or two would cross the Canadian border and be over
southern Ontario. Detroit and Windsor, the twin

cities straddling the border, were ordinarily a bright splash of light,
visible for miles ahead. Tonight there was only darkness, the cities
shrouded and somewhere down below to starboard. Dernerest remembered that
Detroit Metropolitan Airport had closed shortly before their own takeoff.
Both cities, by now, would be taking the full brunt of the storm, which
was moving east.
Back in the passenger cabins, Demerest knew, Gwen Meighen and the other
stewardesses would be serving a second round of drinks and, in first
class, hot hors d'oeuvres on exclusive Rosenthal china.
"I warned you I had strong feelings," Anson Harris said. "You don't need
a religion, to believe in human ethics."
Demerest growled, "Or to have screwbaU ideas. Anyway, people who think
like you are on the losing side. The trend is to make abortion easier;
eventuaffy, maybe, wide open and legal."
"If it happens," Harris said, "we'll be a backward step nearer the
Auschwitz ovens."
"Nuts!" Demerest glanced up from the flight log, where he was recording
their position, just reported. His irritability, seldom far below the
surface, was beginning to show. "There are plenty of good arguments in
favor of easy abortion-unwanted children who'll be born. to poverty and
never get a chance; then the special cases –rape, incest, the mother's
health."
"There are always special cases. It's like saying, ,okay, we'll permit
just a little murder, providing you make out a convincing argument."'
Harris shook his head, dissenting. "Then you talked about unwanted
children. Well, they can be stopped by birth control. Nowadays everyone
gets that opportunity, at every economic level. But if we slip up on
that, and a human life starts growing, that's a new human being, and
we've no moral right to condemn it to death. As to what we're born into,
that's a chance we aH take without knowing it; but once we have life,
good or bad, we're entitled to keep it, and not many, however bad it is,
would give it up. The answer to poverty isn't to kill unborn babies, but
to improve society."

Harris considered, then went on, "As to economics, there are economic
arguments for everything. It makes economic logic to kill mental
deficients and mongoloids right after birth; to practice euthanasia on
the terminally ill; to weed out old and useless people, the way they do
in Africa, by leaving them in the jungle for hyenas to eat. But we don't
do it because we value human life and dignity. What I'm saying, Vernon,
is that if we plan to progress we ought to value them a little more."
The alti-meters-one in front of each pilot-touched thirty-three thousand
feet. They were at the top of their climb. Anson Harris eased the
aircraft into level flight while Second Officer Jordan reached forward
again to adjust the throttles.
Demerest said sourly to Harris, "Your trouble is cobwebs in the brain."
He realized he had started the discussion; now, angrily, he wished he
hadn't. To end the subject, he reached for the stewardess call button.
"Let's get some hors d'oeuvres before the first class passengers wolf
them all."
Harris nodded. "Good idea."
A minute or two later, in response to the telephoned order, Gwen Meighen
brought three plates of aromatic hors d'oeuvres, and coffee. On Trans
America, as on most airlines, captains got the fastest service.
"Thanks, Gwen," Vernon Demerest said; then, as she leaned forward to
serve Anson Harris, his eyes confirmed what he already knew. Gwen's waist
was as slim as ever, no sign of anything yet; nor would there be, no
matter what was going on inside. The heck with Harris and his old woman's
arguments! Of course Gwen would haye an abortion-just as soon as they got
back.

Some sixty feet aft of the flight deck, in the tourist cabin, Mrs. Ada
Quonsett was engaged in spirited conversation with the passenger on her
right, whom she had discovered was an amiable, middle-aged oboe player
from the Chicago Symphony. "What a wonderful thing to be a musician, and
so creative. My late husband loved classical music. He fiddled a little
himself, though not professionally, of course."

Mrs. Quonsett was feeling warmed by a Dry Sack sherry for which her
oboist friend had paid, and he had just inquired if she would like
another. Mrs. Quonsett beamed, "Well, it's exceedingly kind of you, and
perhaps I shouldn't, but I really think I will."
The passenger on her left-the man with the little sandy mustache and
scrawny neck-had been less communicative; in fact, disappointing. Mrs.
Quonsett's several attempts at conversation had been rebuffed by mon-
osyllabic answers, barely audible, while the man sat, mostly
expressionless, still clasping his attach6 case on his knees.
For a while, when they had all ordered drinks, Mrs. Quonsett wondered if
the left-seat passenger might unbend. But he hadn't. He accepted Scotch
from the stewardess, paid for it with a lot of small change that he had
to count out, then tossed the drink down almost in a gulp. Her own sherry
mellowed Mrs. Quonsett immediately, so that she thought: Poor man,
perhaps he has problems, and I shouldn't bother him.
She noticed, however, that the scrawny-necked man came suddenly alert
when the captain made his announcement, soon after takeoff, about their
speed, course, time of flight and all those other things which Mrs.
Quonsett rarely bothered listening to. The man on her left, though,
scribbled notes on the back of an envelope and afterward got out one of
those Chart Your Own Position maps, which the airline supplied, spreading
it on top of his attach6 case. He was studying the map now, and making
pencil marks, in between glances at his watch. It all seemed rather silly
and childish to Mrs. Quonsett, who was quite sure that there was a
navigator up front, taking care of where the airplane ought to be, and
when.
Mrs. Quonsett then returned her attention to the oboist who was
explaining that not until recently, when he had been in a public seat
during a Bruckner symphony performance, had he realized that at a moment
when his section of the orchestra was going "pom-tiddey-pom-pom," the
cellos were sounding "ah-diddley-

ah-dah." He mouthed both passages in tune to illustrate his point.
"Really! How remarkably interesting; I'd never thought of that," Mrs.
Quonsett exclaimed. "My late husband would have so enjoyed meeting you,
though of course you are very much younger."
She was now well into the second sherry and enjoying herself thoroughly.
She thought: she had chosen such a nice flight; such a fine airplane and
crew, the stewardesses polite and helpful, and with delightful passengers,
except for the man on her left, who didn't really matter. Soon, dinner
would be served and later, she had learned, there was to be a movie with
Michael Caine, one of her favorite stars. What more could anyone possibly
ask?

Mrs. Quansett had been wrong in assuming that there was a navigator up
front on the flight deck. There wasn't. Trans America, like most major
airlines, no longer carried navigators, even on overseas flights, because
of the multitude of radar and radio systems available on modem jet
aircraft. The pilots, aided by constant air route control surveillance, did
what little navigation was needed.
However, had there been an old-time air navigator aboard Flight Two, his
charted position of the aircraft would have been remarkably similar to that
which D. 0. Guerrero had achieved by rough-and-ready reckoning. Guerrero
had estimated several minutes earlier that they were close to Detroit; the
estimate was right. He knew, because the captain had said so in his
announcement to passengers, that their subsequent course would take them
over Montreal; Fredericton, New Brunswick; Cape Ray; and later St. John's,
Newfoundland. The captain had even been helpful enough to include the
aircraft's ground speed as well as airspeed, making Guerrero's further
calculations just as accurate.
The east coast of Newfoundland, D. 0. Guerrero calculated, would be passed
over in two-and-a-half hours from the present time. However, before then,
the captain would probably make another position an-

nouncement, so the estimate could be revised if necessary. After that, as
already planned, Guerrero would wait a further hour to ensure that the
flight was well over the Atlantic Ocean before pulling the cord on his
case and exploding the dynamite inside. At this moment, in anticipation,
his fingers clasping the attach6 case tensed.
Now that the time of culmination was so close, he wanted it to come
quickly. Perhaps, after all, he thought, he would not wait the full time.
Once they had left Newfoundland, really any time would do.
The shot of whisky had relaxed him. Although most of his earlier tension'
had disappeared on coming aboard, it had built up again soon after
takeoff, particularly when the irritating old cat in the next seat had
tried to start a conversation. D. 0. Guerrero wanted no conversation,
either now or later; in fact, no more communication with anyone else in
this life. All that he wanted was to sit and dream-of three hundred
thousand dollars, a larger sum than he had ever possessed at one time
before, and which would be coming to Inez and the two children, he
presumed, in a matter of days.
Right now he could have used another whisky, but had no money left to pay
for it. After his unexpectedly large insurance purchase, there had been
barely enough small change for the single drink; so he would have to do
without.
As he had earlier, he closed his eyes. This time he was thinking of the
effect on Inez and the children when they heard about the money. They
ought to care about him for what he was doing, even though they wouldn't
know the whole of it-that he was sacrificing himself, giving his own life
for them. But perhaps they might guess a little. If they did, he hoped
they would be appreciative, although he wondered about that, knowing from
experience that people could be surprisingly perverse in reactions to
what was done on their behalf.
The strange thing was: In all his thoughts about Inez and the children,
he couldn't quite visualize their faces. It seemed almost as though he
were thinking about people whom he had never really known.

He compromised by conjuring up visions of dollar signs, followed by
threes, and endless zeros. After a while he must have dropped off to
sleep because, when he opened his eyes a quick glance at his watch showed
that it was twenty minutes later, and a stewardess was leaning over from
the aisle. The stewardess-an attractive brunette who spoke with an
English accent-was asking, "Are you ready for dinner, sir? If so, perhaps
you'd like me to take your case."

4

Almost from their initial moment of meeting, Mel Bakersfeld had formed an
instinctive dislike of the lawyer, Elliott Freemantle, who was leading the
delegation of Meadowood residents. Now, ten minutes or so after the
delegation filed into Mel's office, the dislike was sharpening to
downright loathing.
It seemed as if the lawyer was deliberately being as obnoxious as
possible. Even before the discussion opened, there had been Freemantle's
unpleasant remark about not wanting "a lot of doubletalk," which Mel
parried mildly, though resenting it. Since then, every rejoinder of Mel's
had been greeted with equal rudeness and skepticism. Mel's instinct
cautioned him that Freemantle was deliberately baiting him, hoping that
Mel would lose his temper and make intemperate statements, with the press
recording them. If it was the lawyer's strategy, Mel had no intention of
abetting it. With some difficulty, he continued to keep his own manner
reasonable and polite.
Freemantle had protested what he termed, "the callous indifference of
this airport's management to the health and well-being of my clients, the
good citizen families of Meadowood."

Mel replied quietly that neither the airport nor the airlines using it
had been callous or indifferent. "On the contrary, we have recognized
that a genuine problem about noise exists, and have done our best to deal
with it."
" Then your best, sir, is a miserable, weak effort! And you've done
what?" Lawyer Freemantle declared, "So far as my clients and I can
see-and hear-you've done no more than make empty promises which amount
to nothing. It's perfectly evident-and the reason we intend to proceed
to law-is that no one around here really gives a damn."
The accusation was untrue, Mel countered. There had been a planned
program of avoiding takeoffs on runway two five-which pointed directly
at Meadowood –whenever an alternate runway could be used. Thus, two five
was used mostly for landings only, creating little noise for Meadowood,
even though entailing a loss in operating efficiency for the airport. In
addition, pilots of all airlines had instructions to use noise abatement
procedures after any takeoff in the general direction of Meadowood, on
whatever runway, including turns away from Meadowood immediately after
leaving the ground. Air traffic control had cooperated in all objectives.
Mel added, "What you should realize, Mr. Freemantle, is that this is by
no means the first meeting we have had with local residents. We've
discussed our mutual problems many times."
Elliott Freemantle snapped, "Perhaps At the other times there was not
enough plain speaking."
"Whether that's true or not, you seem to be making up for it now."
"We intend to make up for a good deal-of lost time, wasted effort and bad
faith, the latter not on my clients' part .
Mel decided not to respond. There was nothing to be gained, for either
side, by this kind of harangue-except, perhaps, publicity for Elliott
Freemantle. Mel observed that the reporters' pencils were racing; one
thing which the lawyer clearly understood was what made lively copy for
the press.

As soon as he decently could, Mel resolved, he would cut this session
short. He was acutely conscious of Cindy, still seated where she had been
when the delegation came in, though now appearing bored, which was
characteristic of Cindy whenever anything came up involving airport
affairs. 'nis time, however, Mel sympathized with her. In view of the
seriousness of what they had been discussing, he was finding this whole
Meadowood business an intrusion himself.
In Mel's mind, too, was his recurring concern for Keith. He wondered how
things were with his brother, over in air traffic control. Should he have
insisted that Keith quit work for tonight, and pursued their discussion
which-until the tower watch chief's intervention cut it off-had seemed
to be getting somewhere? Even now, perhaps, it was not too late … But
then there was Cindy, who certainly had a right to be considered ahead
of Keith; and now this waspish lawyer, Freemantle, still ranting on …
"Since you chose to mention the so-called noise abatement procedures,"
Elliott Freemantle inquired sarcastically, "may I ask what happened to
them tonight?"
Mel sighed. "We've had a storm for three days." His glance took in the
others in the delegation. "I'm sure you're all aware of it. It's created
emergency situations." He explained the blockage of runway three zero,
the temporary need for takeoffs on runway two five, with the inevitable
effect on Meadowood.
"That's all very well," one of the other men said. He was a heavy-jowled,
balding man whom Mel had met at other discussions about airport noise.
"We know about the storm, Mr. Bakersfeld. But if you've living directly
underneath, knowing why airplanes are coming over doesn't make anyone
feel better, storm or not. By the way, my name is Floyd Zanetta. I was
chairman of the meeting . . . "
Elliott Freernantle cut in smoothly. "If you'll excuse me, there's
another point before we go on." Obviously the lawyer had no intention of
relinquishing control of the delegation, even briefly. He addressed Mel,
with a sideways glance at the press. "It isn't solely noise that's

filling homes and ears of Meadowood, though that's bad enough-shattering
nerves, destroying health, depriving children of their needed sleep. But
there is a physical invasion . . ."
This time Mel interrupted. "Are you seriously suggesting that as an
alternative to what's happened tonight, the airport should close down?"
"Not only am I suggesting that you do it; we may compel you. A moment ago
I spoke of a physical invasion. It is that which I will prove, before the
courts, on behalf of my clients. And we will win!"
The other members of the delegation, including Floyd Zanetta, gave
approving nods.
While waiting for his last words to sink home, Elliott Freemantle
deliberated. He supposed he had gone almost far enough. It was
disappointing that the airport general manager hadn't blown a fuse, as
Freernantle had been carefully goading him to do. The technique was one
which he had used before, frequently with success, and it was a good
technique because people who lost their tempers invariably came off worse
in press reports, which wag what Freemantle was mainly concerned about.
But Bakersfeld, though clearly annoyed, had been too smart to fall for
that ploy. Well, never mind, Elliott Freemantle thought; he had been
successful just the same. He, too, had seen the reporters industriously
getting his words down-words which (with the sneer and hectoring tone
removed) would read well in print; even better, he believed, than his
earlier speech at the Meadowood meeting.
Of course, Freemantle realized, this whole proceeding was just an
exercise in semantics. Nothing would come of it. Even if the airport
manager, Bakersfeld, could be persuaded to their point of view-a highly
unlikely happening-there was little or nothing he could do about it. The
airport was a fact of life and nothing would alter the reality of it
being where and how it was. No, the value of being here at all tonight
was partly in gaining public attention, but principally (from Lawyer
Freemantle's viewpoint) to convince the Meadowood populace that they had
a stalwart champion, so that those

legal retainer forms (as well as checks) would keep on flowing into the
offices of Freemantle and Sye.
It was a pity, Freemantle thought, that the remainder of the crowd from
Meadowood, who were waiting downstairs, could not have heard him up here,
dishing out the rough stuff-on their behalf-to Bakersfeld. But they
would read about it in tomorrow's papers; also, Elliott Freemantle was
not at all convinced that what was happening here and now would be the
last Meadowood item on tonight's airport agenda. He had already promised
the TV crews, who were waiting down below because they couldn't make it
in here with their equipment, a statement when this present session was
over. He had hopes that by now-because he had suggested it –the TV
cameras would be set up in the main terminal concourse, and eveL though
that Negro police lieutenant had forbidden any demonstration there,
Freemantle had an idea that the TV session, astutely managed, might well
develop into one.
Elliott Freemantle's statement of a moment ago had concerned legal
action-the action which, he had assured Meadowood residents earlier this
evening, would be his principal activity on their behalf. "My business
is law," he had told them. "Law and nothing else." It was not true, of
course; but then, Elliott Freemantle's policies were apt to back and fill
as expediency demanded-
"What legal action you take," Mel Bakersfeld pointed out, "is naturally
your own affair. All the same, I would remind you that the courts have
upheld the rights of airports to operate, despite adjoining communities,
as a matter of public convenience and necessity."
Freemantle's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't realize that you are a lawyer
too."
"I'm not a lawyer. I'm also quite sure you're aware of it.11
"Well, for a moment I was beginning to wonder." Elliott Freemantle
smirked. "Because I am, you see, and with some experience in these
matters. Furthermore, I assure you that there are legal precedents in my
clients' favor." As he had at the meeting earlier, he rattled off the
impressive-sounding list of cases-U.S. v.

Causby, Griggs v. County of Allegheny, Thornburg v. Port of Portland, Martin
v. Port of Seattle.
Mel was amused, though he didn't show it. The cases were familiar to him.
He also knew of others, which had produced drastically different judgments,
and which Elliott Freemantle was either unaware of or had cagily avoided
mentioning. Mel suspected the latter, but had no intention of getting into
a legal debate. The place for that, if and when it happened, was in court.
However, Mel saw no reason why the lawyer-whom he now disliked even more
intensely-should have everything his own way. Speaking to the delegation
generally, Mel explained his reason for avoiding legal issues, but added,
"Since we are all here, there are some things I would like to say to you on
the subject of airports and noise generally."
Cindy, he observed, was yawning.
Freemantle responded instantly. "I doubt if that will be necessary. The
next step so far as we are concerned. . ."
"Oh!" For the first time Mel dispensed with mildness, and bore down
heavily. "Am I to understand that after I've listened patiently to you, you
and your group are not prepared to extend the same courtesy?"
The delegate, Zanetta, who had spoken before, glanced at the others. "I do
think we ought . . ."
Mel said sharply, "Let Mr. Freemantle answer."
"There's really no need"-the lawyer smiled suavely –"for anyone to raise
their voice, or be discourteous."
"In that case, why have you been doing both those things ever since you
came in?"
"I'm not aware . . ."
"Well, I am aware."
"Aren't you losing your temper, Mr. Bakersfeld?"
"No," Mel smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not." He was
conscious of having seized an advantage, catching the lawyer by surprise.
Now he went on, "You've had a good deal to say, Mr. Freemantle, and not
much of it politely. But there are a few things I'd like to get on the
record, too. Also, I'm sure the press will be interested in both sides even
if no one else is."

"Oh, we're interested all right. It's just that we've heard all the
wishy-washy excuses already." As usual, Elliott Freemantle was recovering
fast. But he admitted to himself that he bad been lulled by Bakersfeld's
earlier mild manner, so that the sharp counterattack caught him unawares.
He realized that the airport general manager was more astute than he
appeared.
"I didn't say anything about excuses," Mel pointed out. "I suggested a
review of airport noise situations generally."
Freemantle shrugged. The last thing he wanted was to open up some new
approach which might be newsworthy and, therefore, divert attention from
himself. At the moment, though, he didn't see how he could prevent it.
" Ladies and gentlemen," Mel began, "when you first came here tonight
something was said about plain, blunt speaking on both sides. Mr.
Freemantle has had his turn at that; now I will be equally candid."
Mel sensed he had the full attention of the two women and four men in the
delegation; also of the press. Even Cindy was watching him covertly. He
continued to speak quietly.
"All of you know, or should, the measures which we have taken at Lincoln
International Airport to make life easier, more bearable, from the point
of view of aircraft noise, for those who live in the airport vicinity.
Some of these measures have been mentioned already, and there are others,
such as using remote airport areas for the testing of engines, and even
then during proscribed hours only."
Elliott Freemantle, already fidgeting, cut in. "But you've admitted that
these so-called systems fail to work."
Mel snapped back, "I admitted nothing of the kind. Most of the time they
do work-as well as any compromise can. Tonight I've admitted that they
are not working because of exceptional circumstances, and frankly if I
were a pilot, taking off in weather like this, I'd be reluctant to reduce
power right after takeoff, and

make a climbing turn too. Furthermore, this kind of condition is bound to
recur from time to time."
"Most of the time!"
"No, sirl And please allow me to finish!" Without pausing, Mel went on,
"The fact is: airports-here and elsewhere-have come close to doing as much
as they can in the way of noise reduction. You may not like hearing this,
and not everyone in this business admits it, but the truth is: there isn't
a lot more that anyone can do. You simply cannot tiptoe a three hundred
thousand pound piece of high-powered machinery into any place. So when you
do bring a big jet airplane in-or take it out-inevitably it shakes hell out
of a few people who are nearby." There were several quick smiles, though
not from Elliott Freemantle, who was scowling. Mel added, "So if we need
airports-and obviously we do –somebody, somewhere has to put up with some
noise, or move away."
It was Mel's turn to see the reporters' pencils racing with his words.
"It's true," Mel continued, "that aircraft manufacturers are working on
noise reduction devices, butagain to be honest with yo-few people in the
aviation industry take them seriousiy, and certainly they do not represent
a major effort like, for example, development of a new aircraft. At best,
they'll be palliatives. If you don't believe me, let me remind you that
even though trucks have been in use for many years more than airplanes, no
one has yet invented a really effective truck muffler.
"Another thing to bear in mind is that by the time one type of jet engine
gets quieted a little-if it ever does-there'll be new, more powerful
engines in use which, even with suppressors fitted, will be noisier than
the first engine was to begin with. As I said," Mel added, "I am being
absolutely frank."
One of the women in the delegation murmured gloomily, "You sure are."
"Which brings me," Mel said, "to the question of the future. There are new
breeds of aircraft coming-another family of jets after the Boeing 747s,
including

behemoths like the Lockheed 500, which will come into use soon; then
shortly afterward, the supersonic transports-the Concord6, and those to
follow. The Lockheed 500 and its kind will be subsonic-that is, they'll
operate at less than the speed of sound, and will give us the kind of
noise we have now, only more of it. The supersonics will have a mighty
engine noise too, plus a sonic boom as they breach the sound barrier,
which is going to he more of a problem than any other noise we've had so
far.
"You may have heard or read-as I have-optimistic reports that the sonic
booms will occur high, far from cities and –tirports, and that the effect
on thi ground will be minor. Don't believe it! We're in for trouble, all
of us –people !n homes, like you; people like me, who run airports;
airlines, who'll have a billion dollars invested in equipment which they
must use continuously, or go bankrupt. Believe me, the time is coming
when we'll wish we had the simplicity of the kind of noise we're talking
about tonight."
"So what are you telling my clients?" Elliott Freemantle inquired
sarcastically. "To go jump in the lunatic asylum now rather than wait
until you and your behemoths drive them there?"
"No," Mel said firmly, "I'm not telling them that. I'm merely saying
candidly-the way you asked me to-that I haven't any simple answers; nor
will I make you promises that the airport cannot keep. Also I'm saving
that in my opinion, airport noise is going to bec~me greater, nw less.
However, I'd like to remind all of you that this problem isn't new. It's
existed since trains started running, and since trucks, buses, and
automobiles joined them; there was the same problem when freeways were
built through residential areas; and when airports were established, and
grew. All these things are for the public good-or so we believe-yet all
of them create noisc and, despite all kinds of efforts, they've continued
t,-). The thing is: trucks, trains, freeways, airplanes, and the rest
are here. They're part of the way we live, and unless we change our way
of life, then their noise is something we have to live with too."

"In other words, my clients should abandon any idea of serenity,
uninterrupted sleep, privacy and quietness for the remainder of their
natural lives?"
"No," Mel said. "I think, in the end, they'll have to move. I'm not
speaking officially, of course, but I'm convinced that eventually this
airport and others will be obliged to make multibillion-dollar purchases
of residential areas surrounding them. A good many of the areas can
become industrial zones where noise won't matter. And of course, there
would be reasonable compensation to those who owned homes and were forced
to leave them."
Elliott Freemantle rose and motioned others in the delegation to do the
same.
"That last remark," he informed Mel, "is the one sensible thing I've
heard this evening. However, the compensation may start sooner than you
think, and also be larger." Freemantle nodded curtly. "You will be
hearing from us. We shall see you in court."
He went out, the others following.
Through the door to the anteroom Mel heard one of the two women delegates
exclaim, "You were magnificent, Mr. Freemantle. I'm going to tell
everyone so."
"Well, thank you. Thank you very . The voices faded.
Mel went to the door, intending to close it.
"I'm sorry about that," he said to Cindy. Now that the two of them were
alone again, he was not sure what else they had to say to each other, if
anything.
Cindy said icily, "It's par for the course. You should have married an
airport."
At the doorway, Mel noticed that one of the men reporters had returned
to the anteroom. It was Tomlinson of the Tribune.
"Mr. Bakersfeld, could I see you for a moment?"
Mel said wearily, "What is it?"
"I got the impression you weren't too smitten with Mr. Freemantle."
"Is this for quotation?"
"No, sir."
"Then your impression was right."

"I thought you'd be interested in this," the reporter said.
"This" was one of the legal retainer forms which Elliott Freemantle had
distributed at the Meadowood community meeting.
As Mel read the form, he asked, "Where did you get it?"
The reporter explained.
"How many people were at the meeting?"
"I counted. Roughly six hundred."
"And how many of these forms were signed?"
"I can't be sure of that, Mr. Bakersfeld. My guess would be a hundred and
fifty were signed and tumed in. Then there were other people who said
they'd send theirs by mail."
Mel thought grimly: now be could understand Elliott Freemantle's
histrionics; also why and whom the lawyer was trying to impress.
"I guess you're doing the same arithmetic I did," the reporter, Tomlinson,
said.
Mel nodded. "It adds up to a tidy little sum."
"Sure does. I wouldn't mind a piece of it myself."
"Maybe we're both in the wrong business. Did you cover the Meadowood
meeting too?"
"Yes. "
"Didn't anyone over there point out that the total legal fee was likely to
be at least fifteen thousand dollars?"
Tomlinson shook his head. "Either no one thought of it, or they didn't
care. Besides, Freemantle has quite a personality; hypnotic, I guess you'd
call it. He had 'em spellbound, like he was Billy Graham."
Mel banded back the printed retainer form. "Will you put this in your
story?"
"I'll put it in, but don't be surprised if the city desk kills it. They're
always wary about professional legal stuff. Besides, I guess if you come
right down to it, there's nothing really wrong."
"No," Mel said, "it may be unethical, and I imagine the bar association
wouldn't like it. But it isn't illegal. What the Meadowood folk should have
done, of course,

was get together and retain a lawyer as a group. But if people are
gullible, and want to make lawyers rich, I guess it's their own affair."
Tomlinson grinned. "May I quote some of that?"
"You just got through telling me your paper wouldn't print it. Besides,
this is off the record. Remember?"
"Okay. 11
If it would have done any good, Mel thought, he would have sounded off,
and taken a chance on being quoted or not. But he knew it wouldn't do any
good. He also knew that all over the country, ambulance chasing lawyers
like Elliott Freemantle were busily signing up groups of people, then
harassing airports, airlines, and –in some cases-pilots.
It was not the harassing which Mel objected to; that, and legal recourse,
were everyone's privilege. It was simply that in many instances the
homeowner clients were being misled, buoyed up with false hopes, and
quoted an impressive-sounding, but one-sided selection of legal
precedents such as Elliott Freemantle had used tonight. As a result, a
spate of legal actions-costly and time-coasuming-was being launched, most
of which were foredoomed to fail, and from which only the lawyers
involved would emerge as beneficiaries.
Mel wished that he had known earlier what Tomlinson had just told him.
In that case he would have loaded his remarks to the delegation, so as
to convey a warning about Elliott Freemantle, and what the Meadowood
residents were getting into. Now it was too late.
"Mr. Bakersfeld," the Tribune reporter said, "there are some other things
I'd like to ask you-about the airport generally. If you could spare a few
minutes . . ."
"Any other time I'll be glad to." Mel raised his hands in a helpless
gesture. "Right now there are fifteen things happening at once."
The reporter nodded. "I understand. Anyway, I'll be around for a while.
I hear Freemantle's bunch are cooking up something down below. So if
there's a chance later. . ."
"I'll do my best," Mel said, though he bad no intention of being
available any more tonight. He respected

Tomlinson's wish to dig below the surface of any story which he covered;
just the same, Mel had seen enough of delegations and reporters for one
evening.
As to whatever else it was that Freemantle and the Meadowood people were
"cooking up down below," he would leave any worrying about that, Mel
decided, to Lieutenant Ordway and his policemen.

5

When Mel turned, after closing the door of his office as the Tribune
reporter left, Cindy was standing, pulling on her gloves. She remarked
acidly, "Fifteen things happening, I betieve you said. Whatever the other
fourteen are, I'm sure they'll all take priority over me."
"That was a figure of speech," Mel protested, "as you know perfectly well.
I already said I'm sorry. I didn't know this was going to happen-at least,
not all at once."
"But you love it, don't you? All of it. Much more than me, home, the
children, a decent social life."
"Ah!" Mel said. "I wondered when you'd get to that." He stopped. "Oh, hell!
Why are we fighting again? We settled everything, didn't we? There's no
need to fight any more."
"No," Cindy said. She was suddenly subdued. "No, I suppose not."
There was an uncertain silence. Mel broke it first.
"Look, getting a divorce is a pretty big thing for both of us; for Roberta
and Libby, too. If you've any doubts
11

;1 Haven't we been over that already?"
"Yes; but if you want to, we'll go over it fifty times again."
"I don't want to." Cindy shook her head decisively.

"I haven't any doubts. Nor have you, not really. Have you?"
"No," Mel said. "I'm afraid I haven't."
Cindy started to say something, then stopped. She had been going to tell
Mel about Lionel Urquhart, but decided against it. There was plenty of time
for Mel to find that out for himself, later. As to Derek Eden, whom Cindy
had been thinking about during most of the time that the Meadowood
delegation had been in the office, she had no intention of disclosing his
existence to Mel or Lionel.
There was a knock-light but definite-on the anteroom door.
"Oh, God!" Cindy muttered, "Isn't there any privacy?"
Mel called out irritably, "Who is it?"
The door opened. "Just me," Tanya Livingston said. "Mel, I need some advice
. . ." As she saw Cindy, she stopped abruptly. "Excuse me. I thought you
were alone."
"He will be," Cindy said. "In hardly any time at all."
"Please, no!" Tanya flushed. "I can come back, Mrs. Bakersfeld. I didn't
know I was disturbing you."
Cindy's eyes flicked over Tanya, stiff in Trans America uniform.
"It's probably time we were disturbed," Cindy said. "After all, it's been
a good three minutes since the last people left, and that's longer than we
usually have together." She swung toward Mel. "Isn't it?"
He shook his head, without answering.
"By the way." Cindy turned back to Tanya. "I'm curious about one thing. How
you were so sure who I am.11
Momentarily, Tanya had lost her usual poise. Recovering it, she gave a
small smile. "I suppose I guessed,"
Cindy's eyebrows went up. "Am I supposed to do the same?" She glanced at
Mel.
"No," he said. He introduced them.
Mel was aware of Cindy appraising Tanya Livingston. He had not the
slightest doubt that his wife was already forming some conclusion about
Tanya and him-

self; Mel had long ago learned that Cindy's instincts about rnen-women
relationships were uncannily accurate. Besides, he was sure that his own
introduction of Tanya had betrayed something. Husbands and wives were too
familiar with each other's nuances of speech for that not to happen. It
would not even surprise him if Cindy guessed about his own and Tanya's
rendezvous for later tonight, though perhaps, he reflected, that was
carrying imagination too far.
Well, whatever Cindy knew or guessed, he supposed it didn't really
matter. After all, she was the one who had asked for a divorce, so why
should she object to someone else in Mel's life, however much or little
Tanya meant, and he wasn't sure of that himself? But then, Mel reminded
himself, that was a logical way of thinking. Women-including Cindy, and
probably Tanya-were seldom logical.
The last thought proved right.
"How nice for you," Cindy told him with pseudo sweetness, "that it isn't
just dull old delegations who come to you with problems." She eyed Tanya.
"You did say you have a problem?"
Tanya returned the inspection levelly. "I said I wanted some advice."
"Oh, really! What kind of advice? Was it business, personal? … Or
perhaps you've forgotten."
"Cindy," Mel said sharply, "that's enough! You've no reason . . ."
"No reason for what? And why is it enough?" His wife's voice was mocking;
he had the impression that in a perverse way she was enjoying herself.
"Aren't you always telling me I don't take enough interest in your
problems? Now I'm all agog about your friend's problem … that is, if
there is one."
Tanya said crisply, "It's about Flight Two." She added. "That's Trans
America's flight to Rome, Mrs. Bakersfeld. It took off half an hour ago."
Mel asked, "What about Flight Two?"
"To tell the truth"-Tanya hesitated-"I'm not really sure."
"Go ahead," Cindy said. "Think of something."

Mel snapped, "Oh, shut up!" He addressed Tanya, "What is it?"
Tanya glanced at Cindy, then told him of her conversation with Customs
Inspector Standish. She described the man with the suspiciously held
attach& case, whom Standish suspected of smuggling.
"He went aboard Flight Two?"
"Yes. 11

"Then even if your man was smuggling," Mel pointed out, "it would be into
Italy. The U.S. Customs people don't worry about that. They let other
countries look out for themselves."
"I know. That's the way our D.T.M. saw it." Tanya described the exchange
between herself and the District Transportation Manager, ending with the
latter's irritable but firm instruction, "Forget it!"
Mel looked puzzled. "Then I don't see why . .
"I told you I'm not sure, and maybe this is all silly. But I kept thinking
about it, so I started checking."
"Checking what?"
Both of them had forgotten Cindy.
"Inspector Standish," Tanya said, "told me that the man-the one with the
attach6 case-was almost the last to board the flight. He must have been
because I was at the gate, and I missed seeing an old woman . . ." She
corrected herself. "That part doesn't matter. Anyway, a few minutes ago I
got bold of the gate agent for Flight Two and we went over the manifest and
tickets together. He couldn't remember the man with the case, but we
narrowed it down to five names."
"And then?"
"Just on a hunch I called our check-in counters to see if anyone remembered
anything about any of those five people. At the airport counters, nobody
did. But downtown, one of the agents did remember the man-the one with the
case. So I know his name; the description fits
. everything."
"I still don't see what's so extraordinary. He had to check in somewhere.
So he checked in downtown."
"The reason the agent remembered him," Tanya said,

"is that lie didn't have any baggage, except the little case. Also, the
agent said, he was extremely nervous."
"Lots of people are nervous . . ." Abruptly Mel stopped. He frowned. "No
baggage! For a flight to Rome! "
"That's right. Except for the little bag the man was carrying, the one
Inspector Standish noticed. The agent downtown called it a briefcase."
"But nobody goes on that kind of journey without baggage. It doesn't make
sense."
"That's what I thought." Again Tanya hesitated. "It doesn't make sense
unless
"Unless what?"
"Unless you happen to know already that the flight you're on will never get
to where it's supposed to be going. If you knew that, you'd also know that
you wouldn't need any baggage."
"Tanya," Mel said softly, "what are you trying to say?"
She answered uncomfortably, "I'm not sure; that's why I came to you. When
I think about it, it seems silly and melodramatic, only. .
11 Go on."
"Well, supposing that man we've been talking about isn't smuggling at all;
at least, in the way we've all assumed. Supposing the reason for him not
having any luggage, for being nervous, for holding the case the way
Inspector Standish noticed . . . suppose instead of having some sort of
contraband in there . . . he has a bomb."
Their eyes held each other's steadily. Mel's mind was
speculatin ' a, assessing possibilities. To him, also, the
idea which Tanya had just raised seemed ridiculous and
remote. Yet . . . in the past, occasionally, such things
had happened. The question was: How could you
decide if this was another time? The more he thought
about it, the more he realized that the entire episode of
the man with the attach6 case could so easily be inno
cent; in fact, probably was. If that proved true after a
fuss had been created, whoever began the fuss would
have made a fool of himself. It was human not to want

to do that; yet, with the safety of an airplane and passengers involved,
did making a fool of oneself matter? Obviously not. On the other hand,
there ought to be a stronger reason for the drastic actions which a bomb
scare would involve than merely a possibility, plus a hunch. Was there,
Mel wondered, some way conceivably in which a stronger hint, even
corroboration, might be found?
Offhand, be couldn't think of one.
But there was something he could check. It was a long shot, but all that
was needed was a phone call. He supposed that seeing Vernon Dernerest
tonight, with the reminder of the clash before the Board of Airport Com-
missioners, had made him think of it.
For the second time this evening, Mel consulted his pocket panic-list of
telephone numbers. Then, using an internal airport telephone on his desk,
he dialed the insurance vending booth in the main concourse. The girl
clerk who answered was a long-time employee whom Melknew well.
"Marj," he said, when he had identified himself, "have you written many
policies tonight on the Trans America Flight Two?"
"A few more than usual, Mr. Bakersfeld. But then we have on all flights;
this kind of weather always does that. On Flight Two, I've had about a
dozen, and I know Bunnie-that's the other girl on with me-has written
some as well."
"What I'd like you to do," Mel told her, "is read me all the names and
policy amounts." As he sensed the girl hesitate, "If I have to, I'll call
your district manager and get authority. But you know he'll give it to
me, and I'd like you to take my word that this is important. Doing it
this way, you can save me time."
"All right, Mr. Bakersfeld; if you say it's okay. But it will take a few
minutes to get the policies together."
"I'll wait."
Mel heard the telephone put down, the girl apologize to someone at the
insurance counter for the interruption. There was a rustling of papers,
then another girl's voice inquiring, "Is something wrong?"

Covering the telephone mouthpiece, Mel asked Tanya, "What's that name you
have-the man with the case?"
She consulted a slip of paper. "Guerrero, or it may be Buerrero; we had it
spelled both ways." She saw Mel start. "Initials D.O."
Mel's hand still cupped the telephone. His mind was concentrating. The
woman who had been brought to his office half an hour ago was named
Guerrero; he remembered Lieutenant Ordway saying so. She was the one whom
the airport police had found wandering in the terminal. According to Ned
Ordway, the woman was distressed and crying; the police couldn't get any
sense from her. Mel was going to try talking to her himself, but hadn't
gotten around to it. He had seen the woman on the point of leaving the
outer office as the Meadowood delegation came in. Of course, there might be
no connection …
Through the telephone, Mel could still hear voices at the insurance booth
and, in the background, the noise of the main terminal concourse.
"Tanya," he said quietly, "about twenty minutes ago there was a woman in
the outside office-middle-aged, shabbily dressed; she looked wet and
draggle-tailed. I believe she left when some other people came in, but she
might be stiff around. If she's anywhere outside, bring her in. In any
case, if you find her, don't let her get away from you." Tanya looked
puzzled. He added, "Her name is Mrs. Guerrero."
As Tanya left the office, the girl clerk at the insurance booth came back
on the line. "I have all those policies, Mr. Bakersfeld. Are you ready if
I read the names?"
"Yes, Marj. Go ahead."
He listened carefully. As a name near the end occurred, he had a sudden
sense of tension. For the first time his voice was urgent. "Tell me about
that policy. Did you write it?"
"No. That was one of Bunnie's. I'll let you speak to her."
He listened to what the other girl had to say and asked two or three
questions. Their exchange was brief.

He broke the connection and was dialing another number as Tanya returned.
Though her eyes asked questions which for the moment he ignored, she
reported immediately, "There's no one on the mezzanine. There are still
a million people down below, but you'd never pick anyone out. Should we
page?"
"We can try, though I don't have a lot of hope." On the basis of what he
had learned, Mel thought, not much was getting through to the Guerrero
woman, so it was unlikely that a p.a. announcement would do so now. Also,
by this time she could have left the airport and be halfway to the city.
He reproached himself for not having tried to talk with her, as he had
intended, but there had been the other things: the delegation from
Meadowood; his anxiety about his brother, Keith-Mel remembered that he
had considered going back to the control tower . . . well, that would
have to wait now … then there had been Cindy. With a guilty start
because he hadn't noticed before, he realized that Cindy was gone.
He reached for the p.a. microphone on his desk and pushed it toward
Tanya.
There was an answer from the number he had dialed, which was airport
police headquarters. Mel said crisply, "I want Lieutenant Ordway. Is he
still in the terminal?"
"Yes, sir." The police desk sergeant was familiar with Mel's voice.
"Find him as quickly as you can; I'll bold. And by the way, what was the
first name of a woman called Guerrero, whom one of your people picked up
tonight? I think I know, but I want to make sure."
"Just a minute, sir. I'll look." A moment later he said, "It's Inez; Inez
Guerrero. And we've already called the lieutenant on his beeper box."
Mel was aware that Lieutenant Ordway, like many others at the airport,
carried a pocket radio receiver which gave a "beep" signal if he was
required urgently. Somewhere, at this moment, Ordway was undoubtedly
hastening to a phone.
Mel gave brief instructions to Tanya, then pressed the

"on" switch of the p.a. microphone, which overrode all others in the
terminal. Through the open doors to the anteroom and mezzanine he heard an
American Airlines flight departure announcement halt abruptly in mid-sen-
tence. Only twice before, during the eight years of Mel's tenure as airport
general manager, had the mike and override switch been used. The first
occasion-branded in Mel's memory-had been to announce the death of President
Kennedy; the second, a year later, was when a lost and crying child wandered
directly into Mel's office. Usually there were regular procedures for
handling lost children, but that time Mel had used the mike himself to
locate the frantic parents.
Now he nodded to Tanya to begin her announcement, remembering that he was
not yet sure why they wanted the woman, Inez Guerrero, or even that-for
certainthere was anything wrong at all. Yet instinct told him that there
was; that something serious had happened, or was happening; and when you
had a puzzle of that kind, the smart and urgent thing to do was gather all
the pieces that you could, hoping that somehow, with help from other
people, you could fit them together to make sense.
"Attention please," Tanya was saying in her clear, unaffected voice, now
audible in every comer of the terminal. "Will Mrs. Inez Guerrero, or
Buerrero, please come immediately to the airport general manager's office
on the administrative mezzanine of the main terminal building. Ask any
airline or airport representative to direct you. I will repeat . . ."
There was a click in Mel's telephone. Lieutenant Ordway came on the line.
"We want that woman," Mel told him. "The one who was here-Guerrero. We're
announcing. .
"I know," Ordway said. "I can hear."
"We need her urgently; I'll explain later. For now, take my word. . ."
"I already have. When did you last see her?"
"In my outer office. When she was with you."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Only that this may be big. I suggest you drop every-

thing; use at] your men. And whether you find her or not, get up here
soon."
"Right." There was another click as Ordway hung up.
Tanya had finished her announcement; she pushed the "off" button of the
microphone. Outside, Met could hear another announcement begin,
"Attention Mr. Lester Mainwaring. Will Mr. Mainwaring and all members of
his party report immediately to the main terminal entrance?"
"Lester Mainwaring" was an airport code name for policeman." Normally,
such an announcement meant that the nearest policeman on duty was to go
wherever the message designated. "All members of his party" meant every
policeman in the terminal. Most airports had similar systems to alert
their police without the public being made aware.
Ordway was wasting no time. Undoubtedly he would brief his men about Inez
Guerrero as they reported to the main entrance.
"Call your D.T.M.," Mel instructed Tanya. "Ask him to come to this office
as quickly as he can. Tell him it's important." Partly to himself, he
added, "We'll start by getting everybody here."
Tanya made the call, then reported, "He's on his way." Her voice betrayed
nervousness.
Met had gone to the office door. He closed it.
" You still haven't told me," Tanya said, "what it was you found out."
Mel chose his words carefully.
"Your man Guerrero, the one with no luggage except the little attacb6
case, and whom you think might have a bomb aboard Flight Two, took out
a flight insurance policy just before takeoff for three hundred thousand
dollars. ne beneficiary is Inez Guerrero. He paid for it with what looked
like his last small change."
"My God!" Tanya's face went white. She whispered, "Oh, dear God … no!"

6

There were times-tonight was one-when Joe Patroni was grateful that he
worked in the maintenance baitiwick of aviation, and not in sales.
The thought occurred to him as he surveyed the busy activity of digging
beneath, and around the mired A6reo-Mexican jet which continued to block
runway three zero.
As Patroni saw it, airline sales forces-in which category he lumped all
front office staff and executivescomprised inflatable rubber people who
connived against each other like fretful ~hfldren. On the other hand,
Patroni was convinced that those in engineering and maintenance departments
behaved like mature adults. Maintenance men (Joe was apt to argue), even
when employed by competing airlines, worked closely and harmoniously,
sharing their information, experience, and even secrets for the common
good.
As Joe Patroni sometimes confided privately to his friends, an example of
this unofficial sharing was the pooling of information which came to
maintenance men regularly through conferences held by individual airlines.
Patroni's employers, like most major scheduled airlines, had daily
telephone conferences-known as "briefings"-during which all regional
headquarters, bases, and outfield stations were connected through a
continent-wide closed-circuit hook-up. Directed by a head office
vice-president, the briefings were, in fact, critiques and information
exchanges on the way the airline had operated during the past twenty-four
hours. Senior people throughout the company's system talked freely and
frankly with one another. Operations and sales departments each had their
own daily briefing; so did maintenance-the latter, in Patroni's opinion, by
far the most important.

During the maintenance sessions, in which Joe Patroni took part five days
a week, stations reported one by one. Where delays in service-for
mechanical reasons –had occurred the previous day, those in charge were
required to account for them. Nobody bothered making excuses. As llatroni
put it: "If you goofed, you say so." Accidents or failures of equipment,
even minor, were reported; the objective, to pool knowledge and prevent
recurrence. At next Monday's session, Patroni would report toniuht's
experience with the A6reo-Mexican 707, and his success or failure,
however it turned out. The daily discussions were strictly no-nonsense,
largely because the maintenance men were tough cookies who knew they
couldn't fool one another.
After each official conference-and usually unknown to senior
managements-unofficial ones began. Patroni and others would exchange
telephone calls with cronies in maintenance departments of competing
airlines. They would compare notes about one another's daily conferences,
passing on what information seemed worth while. Rarely was any
intelligence withheld.
With more urgent matters-especially those affecting safety-word was
passed from airline to airline in the same way, but without the day's
delay. If Delta, for example, had a rotor blade faflure on a DC– 9 in
flight, maintenance departments of Eastern, TWA, Continental, and others
using DC-9s, were told within hours; the information might help prevent
similar failures on other aircraft. Later, photographs of the
disassembled engine, and a technical report, would follow. If they
wished, foremen and mechanics from other airlines could widen their
knowledge by dropping over for a look-see at the failed part, and any
engine damage.
Those who, like Patroni, worked in this give-and-take milieu were fond
of pointing out that if sales and administration departments of competing
airlines bad occasion to consult, their people seldom went to one
another's headquarters, but met on neutral ground. Maintenance men, in
contrast, visited competitors' premises with the assurance of a common
freemasonry. At other times, if one maintenance department was in
trouble, others helped as they were able.

This second kind of help had been sent, tonight, to Joe Patroni.
In the hour and a half since work began in the latest attempt to move the
stranded jet from alongside runway three zero, Patroni's complement of
help had almost doubled. He had begun with the original small crew of
A6reo-Mexican, supplemented by some of his own people from TWA. Now,
digging steadily with the others, were ground crews from Braniff, Pan Am,
American, and Eastern.
As the various newcomers had arrived, in an assortment of airline
vehicles, it became evident that news of Patroni's problem had spread
quickly on the airport grapevine, and, without waiting to be asked, other
maintenance departments had pitched in. It gave Joe Patroni a good,
appreciative feeling.
Despite the extra help, Patroni's estimate of an hour's preparatory work
had already been exceeded. Digging of twin trenches, floored by heavy
timbers, in front of the airliner's main landing gear had gone ahead
steadily –though slowly because of the need for all the men working to
seek shelter periodically, to warm themselves. The shelter and the
warmth, of a sort, were in two crew buses. As the men entered, they beat
their hands and pinched their faces, numb from the biting wind still
sweeping icily across the snow-covered airfield. The buses and other
vehicles, including trucks, snow clearance equipment, a fuel tanker,
assorted service cars, and a roaring power cart-most with beacon lights
flashing-were still clustered on the taxiway close by. The whole scene
was bathed by floodlights, creating a white oasis of snow-reflected light
in the surrounding darkness.
The twirt trenches, each six feet wide, now extended forward and upward
from the big jet's main wheels to the firmer ground onto which Patroni
hoped the airplane could be moved under its own power. At the deepest
level of the trenches was a mess of mud beneath snow, which had
originally trapped the momentarily strayed airliner. The mud and slush
now mingled, but became less viscous as both trenches angled upward. A
third trench, less deep, and narrower than the other two,

had been dug to allow passage of the nosewheel. Once the firmer ground was
reached, the aircraft would be clear of runway three zero, over which one
of its wings now extended, It could also be maneuvered with reasonable
ease onto the solid surface of the adjoining taxiway.
Now the preparatory work was almost complete, the success of what came
next would depend on the aircraft's pilots, still waiting on the Boeing
707's flight deck, high above the current activity. What they would have
to judge was how much power they could safely use to propel the aircraft
forward, without upending it on its nose.
Through most of the time since he arrived, Joe Patroni had wielded a
shovel with the rest of the men digging. Inactivity came hard to him.
Sometimes, too, he welcomed the chance to keep himself fit; even now,
more than twenty years since quitting the amateur boxing ring, he was in
better shape physically than most men years his junior. The airline
ground crewmen enjoyed seeing Patroni's cocky, stocky figure working with
them. He led and exhorted . . . "Keep moving, son, or we'll figure we're
gravediggers, and you the corpse." . . . "The way you guys keep heading
for that bus, looks like you've got a woman stashed there." . . . "If you
lean on that shovel any more, Jack, you'll freeze solid like Lot's wife."
. . . "Men, we want this airplane moved before it's obsolete."
So far, Joe Patroni had not talked with the captain and first officer,
having left that to the A6reo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, who had been in
charge before Patroni's arrival. Ingram had passed up a message on the
aircraft interphone, telling the pilots what was happening below.
Now, straightening his back, and thrusting his shovel at Ingram, the
maintenance chief advised, "Five minutes more should do it. When you're
ready, get the men and trucks clear." He motioned to the snow-shrouded
airplane. "When this one comes out, she'll be like a cork from a
champagne bottle."
Ingram, huddled into his parka, still pinched and cold as he had been
earlier, nodded.

"While you're doing that," Patroni said, "I'll yak with the fly boys.
The old-fashioned boarding ramp which had been trundled from the terminal
several hours ago to disembark the stranded passengers was still in place
near the aircraft's nose. Joe Patroni climbed the ramp, its steps covered
in deep snow, and let himself into the front passenger cabin. He went
for-ward to the flight deckwith relief, lighting his inevitable cigar as
he went.
In contrast to the cold and wind-blown snow outside, the pilots' cockpit
was snug and quiet. One of the communications radios was tuned to soft
music of a commercial station. As Patroni entered, the A6reo-Mexican
first officer, in shirt-sleeves, snapped a switch and the music stopped.
"Don't worry about doing that." The chunky maintenance chief shook
himself like a bull terrier while snow cascaded from his clothing.
"Nothing wrong with taking things easy. After all, we didn't expect you
to come down and shovel."
Only the first officer and captain were in the cockpit. Patroni
remembered hearing that the flight engineer had gone with the
stewardesses and passengers to the terminal.
The captain, a heavy-set, swarthy man who resembled Anthony Quinn,
swiveled around in his port-side seat. He said stiffly, "We have our job
to do. You have yours." His English was precise.
"That's right," Patroni acknowledged. "Only trouble is, our job gets
fouled up and added to. By other people."
"If you are speaking of what has happened here," the captain said, "Madre
de Dios!-you do not suppose that I placed this airplane in the mud on
purpose."
"No, I don't." Patroni discarded his cigar, which was maimed from
chewing, put a new one in his mouth, and lit it. "But now it's there, I
want to make sure we get it out-this next time we try. If we don't, the
airplane'll be in a whole lot deeper; so will all of us, including you."
He nodded toward the captain's seat. "How'd you like me to sit there and
drive it out?"

The captain flushed. Few people in any airline talked as casually to
four-stripers as Joe Patroni.
"No, thank you," the captain said coldly. He might have replied even more
unpleasantly, except that at the moment he was suffering acute
embarrassment for having got into his present predicament at all. To-
morrow in Mexico City, he suspected, he would face an unhappy, searing
session with his airline's chief pilot. He raged inwardly: Jesucristo y
por la amor de Dios!
"There's a lotta half-frozen guys outside who've been busting their
guts," Patroni insisted. "Getting out.now's tricky. I've done it before.
Maybe you should let me again."
The A6reo-Mexican captain bridled. "I know who you are, Mr. Patroni, and
I am told that you are likely to help us move from this bad ground, where
others have failed. So I have no doubt that you are licensed to taxi
airplanes. But let me remind you there are two of us here who are
licensed to fly them. It is what we are paid for. Therefore we shall
remain at the controls."
"Suit yourself." Joe Patroni shrugged, then waved his cigar at the
control pedestal. "Only thing is, when I give the word, open those
throttles all the way. And I mean all the way, and don't chicken out."
As he left the cockpit, he ignored angry glares from both pilots.
Outside, digging had stopped; some of the men who had been working were
warming themselves again in the crew buses. The buses and other
vehicles-with the exception of the power cart, which was needed for
starting engines-were being removed some distance from the airplane.
Joe Patroni closed the forward cabin door behind him and descended the
ramp. The foreman, huddled deeper than ever into his parka, reported,
"Everything's set."
Remembering his cigar was still lighted, Patroni puffed at it several
times, then dropped it into the snow where it went out. He motioned to
the silent jet engines. "Okay, let's light up all four."
Several men were returning from the crew bus. A quartet put their
shoulders to the ramp beside the air-

craft and shoved it clear. Two others responded to the foreman's shout
against the wind, "Ready to start engines!"
One of the second pair stationed himself at the front of the aircraft,
near the power cart. He wore a telephone headset plugged into the
fuselage. The second man, with flashlight signal wands, walked forward
to where he could be seen by the pilots above.
Joe Patroni, with borrowed protective head pads, joined the crewman with
the telephone headset. The remainder of the men were now scrambling from
the sheltering buses, intent on watching what came next.
In the cockpit, the pilots completed their checklist.
On the ground below, the crewman with the telephone set began the jet
starting ritual. "Clear to start engines."
A pause. The captain's voice. "Ready to start, and pressurize the
manifold."
From the power cart blower, a stream of forced air hit the air turbine
starter of number three engine. Compressor vanes turned, spun faster,
whined. At fifteen percent speed, the first officer fed in aviation
kerosene. As the fuel ignited, a smoke cloud belched back and the engine
took hold with a deep-throated bellow.
"Clear to start four."
Number four engine followed three. Generators on both engines charging.
The captain's voice. "Switching to generators. Disconnect ground power."
Above the power cart, electric lines came down. "Disconnected. Clear to
start two."
Number two took hold. Three engines now. An encompassing roar. Snow
streaming behind.
Number one fired and held.
"Disconnect air."
"Disconnected."
The umbilical air hose slipped down. The foreman drove the power cart
away.
Floodlights ahead of the aircraft had been moved to one side.
Patroni exchanged headsets with the crewman near

the front of the fuselage. The maintenance chief now had the telephone
set, and communication with the pilots.
"This's Patroni. VAen you're ready up there, let's roll her out."
Ahead of the aircraft nose, the crewman with the lighted wands held them
up, ready to be a guide along an elliptical path beyond the trenches,
also cleared at Joe Patroni's direction. The crewman was ready to run if
the 707 came out of the mud faster than expected.
Patroni crouched close to the nosewheel. If the airplane moved quickly,
he, too, was vulnerable. He held a hand near the interphone plug, ready
to disconnect. He watched the main landing gear intently for a sign of
forward movement.
The captain's voice. "I am opening up."
The tempo of the jets increased. In a roar like sustained thunder, the
airplane shook, the ground beneath it trembled. But the wheels remained
still.
Patroni cupped his hands around the interphone mouthpiece. "More power!
Throttles forward all the way!"
Ile engine noise heightened but only slightly. The wheels rose
perceptibly, but still failed to move forward.
"Goddarnit! All the way!"
For several seconds, the engine tempo remained as it was, then abruptly
lessened. The captain's voice rattled the interphone; it had a sarcastic
note. "Patroni, por favor, if I open my throttles all the way, this
airplane will stand on its nose. Instead of a stranded 707, we shall both
have a wrecked one."
The maintenance chief had been studying the landing gear wheels, which
had now settled back, and the ground around them. "It'll come out, I tell
you! Ail it needs is the guts to pull full power."
"Look to your own guts!" the captain snapped back. "I am shutting the
engines down."
Patroni shouted into the interphone. "Keep those motors running; hold 'em
at idle! I'm coming up!" Moving forward under the nose, be motioned
urgently for the boarding ramp to be repositioned. But even as it

was being pushed into place, all four engines quieted and died.
When he reached the cockpit, both pilots were unfastening their seat
harnesses.
Patroni said accusingly, "You chickened out!"
The captain's reaction was surprisingly mild. "Es posible. Perhaps it is
the only intelligent thing I have done tonight." He inquired formally,
"Does your maintenance department accept this airplane?"
"Okay." Patroni nodded. "We'll take it over."
The first officer glanced at his watch and made an entry in a log.
"When you have extricated this airplane, in whatever way," the
A6reo-Mexican captain stated, "no doubt your company will be In touch
with my company. Meanwhile, buenas noches."
As the two pilots left, their heavy topcoats buttoned tightly at the
neck, Joe Patroni made a swift, routine check of instruments and control
settings. A minute or so later he followed the pilots down the outside
ramp.
The A6reo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, was waiting below. He nodded in the
direction of the departing pilots, now hurrying toward one of the crew
buses. "That was the same thing they done to me; not pulling enough
power." He motioned gloomily toward the aircraft's main landing gear.
"That's why she went in deep before; now she's dug herself in deeper
still."
It was what Joe Patroni had feared.
With Ingram holding an electric lantern, he ducked under the fuselage to
inspect the landing gear wheels; they were back in mud and slush again,
almost a foot deeper than before. Patroni took the light and shone it
under the wings; all four engine nacelles were disquietingly closer to
the ground.
"Nothing but a sky hook'll help her now," Ingram said.
The maintenance chief considered the situation, then shook his head. "We
got one more chance. We'll dig some more, bring the trenches down to
where the wheels are now, then start the engines again. Only this time
I'll drive."

The wind and snow still howled around them.
Shivering, Ingram acknowledged doubtfully, "I guess you're the doctor.
But better you than me."
Joe Patroni grinned. "If I don't blast her out, maybe I'll blow her
apart."
Ingram headed for the remaining crew bus to call out the men; the other
bus had taken the A6reo-Mexican pilots to the terminal.
Patroni calculated: there was another hour's work ahead before they could
try moving the aircraft again. Therefore runway three zero would have to
continue out of use for at least that long.
He went to his radio-equipped pickup to report to air traffic control.

7

The theory that an overburdened, exhausted mind can exercise its own
safety valve by retreating into passive serniawareness was unknown to Inez
Guerrero. Never-theless, for her, the theory had proved true. At this
moment she was a mental walking-wounded case.
The events of tonight affecting her personally, coupled with her
accumulated distress and weariness of weeks, had proved a final crushing
defeat. It prompted her mind-like an overloaded circuit-to switch off.
The condition was temporary, not permanent, yet while it remained Inez
Guerrero had forgotten where she was, or why.
The mean, uncouth taxi driver who bad brought her to the airport had not
helped. When bargaining downtown, he agreed to seven dollars as the price
of the ride. Getting out, Inez proffered a ten dollar bill-almost the
last money she had-expecting change. Mumbling that he bad no change but
would get some, the cabbie drove

off. Inez waited for ten anxious minutes, watching the terminal clock
which was nearing I I P. m.-the time of Flight Two's departure-before it
dawned on her that the man had no intention of returning. She had noticed
neither the taxi number nor the driver's name-something the driver had
gambled on. Even if she had, Inez Guerrero was not the kind who complained
to authority; the driver had correctly guessed that, too.
Despite the initial slowness of her journey from downtown, she could have
reached Flight Two before it left-but for the time spent waiting for the
non-appearing change. As it was, she arrived at the departure gate to see
the airplane taxiing away.
Even then, to find out if her husband, D.O., was really aboard, Inez had
the presence of mind to use the subterfuge which the Trans America
inquiries girl, Miss Young, suggested on the telephone. A uniformed agent
was just leaving gate forty-seven, where Flight Two had been. Inez
accosted him.
As Miss Young advised, Inez avoided asking a direct question, and made
the statement, "My husband is on that flight which just left." She
explained that she had missed seeing her husband, but wanted to be sure
he was safely aboard. Inez unfolded the yellow time-payment contract
which she bad discovered at home among D.O.'s shirts, and showed it to
the Trans America agent. He barely glanced at it, then checked the papers
he was holding.
For a moment or two Inez wondered hopefully if she had made a mistake in
presuming that D-0. was leaving on the flight; the idea of his going to
Rome at all still seemed fantastic. Then the agent said, yes, there was
a D. 0. Guerrero aboard Flight Two, and be, the agent, was sorry that
Mrs. Guerrero had missed seeing her husband, but everything was in a
mixup tonight because of the storm, and now if she would please excuse
him …
It was when the agent had gone and Inez realized that despite the press
of people around her in the terminal, she was utterly alone, that she
began to cry.
At first the tears came slowly; then, as she remem-

bered all that bad gone wrong, they streamed in great heaving sobs which
shook her body. She cried for the past and for the present; for the home she
had had and lost; for her children whom she could no longer keep with her;
for D.O. who, despite his faults as a husband, and the failure to support
his family, was at least familiar, but now'had deserted her. She wept for
what she herself had been and had become; for the fact that she had no
money, nowhere to go but to the mean, cockroach-infested rooms downtown,
from which she would be evicted tomorrow, having nothing left-after the taxi
ride and driver's theft-from the pathetically small amount with which she
had hoped to stave off the landlord . . . she was not even sure if she bad
enough small change to return downtown. She cried because her shoes still
hurt her feet; for her clothes which were shabby and sodden; for her
weariness, and because she had a cold and a fever which she could feel
getting worse. She cried for herself and all others for whom every hope was
gone.
It was then, to avoid stares of people who were watching, that she began
walking aimlessly through the terminal, still weeping as she went.
Somewhere near that time, too, the defensive machinery of her mind took
over, inducing a protective numbness, so that her sorrow persisted but its
reasons, for a while, were mercifully blurred.
Soon after, an airport policeman found her and, with a sensitivity for
which police are not always credited, placed her in as obscure a comer as
he could find while telephoning his superiors for instructions. Lieutenant
Ordway happened to be nearby and dealt with the matter personally. It was
he who decided that Inez Guerrero, though incoherent and upset, was
harmless, and had ordered her taken to the airport general manager's
office-the only place Ned Ordway could think of which was quiet, yet less
intimidating than police headquarters.
Inez had gone docilely, in an elevator and along a mezzanine, only
half-knowing that she was being taken anywhere at all, and not caring; and
after, had sat

quietly in a seat she was guided to, her body, if not her mind, grateful
for the rest. She had been aware of people coming and going, and some had
spoken, but she had brought neither the sight nor sound of them into
focus, the effort seeming too much.
But after a while, her resilience-which is another word for strength of
the human spirit, which all possess, however burdened or humble-brought
her back to a realization, even though vague, that she must move on,
because life moved on, and always had and would, no matter how many
defeats it wrought, or dreary or empty as it might seem.
So Inez Guerrero stood up, still not sure where she was or how she had
come there, but prepared to go.
It was then that the Meadowood delegation, escorted by Lieutenant Ordway,
entered the anteroom to Mel Bakersfeld's office, where Inez was. The
delegation continued into the other room, then Ned Ordway had returned
to speak with Inez Guerrero, and Mel observed the two of them togethet
briefly before the door to his office closed.
Inez, through her miasma of uncertainty, was also conscious of the big
Negro policeman, whom she had a feeling she had seen somewhere before,
quite recently, and he bad been kind then, as he was being kind now,
leading her with quiet, not-quite-questions, so that he seemed to
understand, without her ever saying so, that she had to return downtown
and wasn't sure she had enough money for it. She started to fumble with
her purse, intending to count what was there, but he stopped her. Then,
with his back to the other room, he slipped three one-dollar bills into
her hand, and came with her outside, pointing the way down to where, he
said, she would find a bus, and added that what he had given her would
be enough for the fare, with something over for wherever she had to go
when she got to the city.
The policeman bad gone then, returning in the direction from which he had
come, and Inez did what she was told, going down some stairs; then almost
at the big door through which she was to go for the bus, she had

seen a familiar sight-a hot dog counter; and at that moment she realized
how hungry and thirsty she was, on top of everything else. She had groped
in her purse, and found thirty-five cents, and bought a hot dog, and
coffee in a paper cup, and somehow the sight of those two very ordinary
things was reassuring. Not far from the food counter, she found a seat and
tucked herself into a corner. She wasn't sure how long ago that was but
now, with the cofTee gone and the hot dog eaten, awareness which earlier
had started to come back, was receding from her once more in a comfortable
way. There was something comforting, too, about the crowds around her, the
noises, and loudspeaker announcements. Twice Inez thought she heard her
own name on the loudspeakers, but knew it was imagination and couldn't be
true because no one would call her, or even know that she was here.
She realized dimly that sometime soon she would have to move on, and knew
that tonight especially it would entail an effort. But for a while, she
thought, she would sit here quietly, where she was.

8

With one exception, those summoned to the airport general manager's office
on the administrative mezzanine arrived there quickly. The calls made to
them-some by Mel Bakersfeld, others by Tanya Livingston-had stressed
urgency, and the need to leave whatever they were doing.
The District Transportation Manager of Trans America-Tanva's boss, Bert
Weatherby-arrived first.
Lieutenant Ordway, having started his policemen searching for Inez
Guerrero, though still not knowing why, was close behind. For the time
being Ordway had

abandoned to their own devices the sizable group of Meadowood residents,
still milling in the main concourse, listening to Lawyer Freemantle
expound their case before TV cameras.
As the D.T.M., Weatherby, entered Mel's office through the anteroom door,
he inquired briskly, "Mel, what's all this about?"
"We're not sure, Bert, and we haven't a lot to go on yet, but there's a
possibility there could be a bomb aboard your Flight Two."
The D.T.M. looked searchingly at Tanya, but wasted no time in asking why
she was there. His gaze swung back to Mel. "Let's hear what you know."
Addressing both the D.T.M. and Ned Ordway, Mel summarized what was known
or conjectured so far: the report of Customs Inspector Standish
concerning the passenger with the attach6 case, clasped in a way which
Standish-an experienced observer-believed to be suspicious; Tanya's
identification of the man with the case as one D. 0. Guerrero, or perhaps
Buerrero; the downtown agent's revelation that Guerrero checked in
without any baggage other than the small case already mentioned;
Guerrero's purchase at the airport of three hundred thousand dollars'
worth of flight insurance, which he barely had enough money to pay for,
so that he appeared to be setting out on a five-thousand mile journey,
not only without so much as a change of clothing, but also without funds;
and finally-perbaps coincidentally, perhaps not-Mrs. Inez Guerrero, sole
beneficiary of her husband's flight insurance policy, had been wandering
through the terminal, apparently in great distress.
While Mel was speaking, Customs Inspector Harry Standish, still in
uniform, came in, followed by Bunnie Vorobioff. Bunnie entered
uncertainly, glancing questioningly around her at the unfamiliar people
and surroundings. As the import of what Mel was saying sank in, she paled
and appeared scared.
The one non-arrival was the gate agent who had been in charge at gate
forty-seven when Flight Two left. A staff supervisor whom Tanya had
spoken to a few min-

utes ago informed her that the agent was now off duty and on his way home.
She gave instructions for a message to be left, and for the agent to check
in by telephone as soon as he arrived. Tanya doubted if anything would be
gained by bringing him back to the airport tonight; for one thing, she
already knew that the agent did not remember Guerrero boarding. But
someone else might want to question him by phone.
"I called everyone here who's involved so far," Mel informed the D.T.M.,
"in case you or someone else have questions. What we have to decide, I
think-and it's mainly your decision-is whether or not we have enough to
warn your captain of Flight Two." Mel was reminded again of what he had
temporarily pushed from mind: that the flight was commanded by his
brother-inlaw, Vernon Demerest. Later, Mel knew, he might have to do some
reconsidering about certain implications. But not yet.
"I'm thinking now." The D.T.M. looked grim; he swung to Tanya. "Whatever
we decide, I want Operations in on this. Find out if Royce Kettering is
still on the base. If so, get him here fast." Captain Kettering was Trans
America's chief pilot at Lincoln International; it was he who earlier
tonight had test-flown aircraft N-731-TA, before-as Flight Two, The
Golden Argosy-it took off for Rome.
"Yes, sir," Tanya said.
While she was on one telephone, another rang. Mel answered.
It was the tower watch chief. "I have the report you wanted on Trans
America Two." One of Mel's calls for a few minutes ago had been to air
traffic control, requesting information on the flight's takeoff time and
progress.
"Go ahead."
"Takeoff was 11: 13 local time." Mel's eyes swung to a wall clock. It was
now almost ten minutes after midnight; the flight had been airborne
nearly an hour.
The tower chief continued, "Chicago Center handed off the flight to
Cleveland Center at 12:27 EST, Cleveland handed it to Toronto at 01:03
EST; that's seven

minutes ago. At the moment, Toronto Center reports the aircraft's position
as near London, Ontario. I have more information-course, height, speed-if
you want it."
"That's enough for now," Mel said. "Thanks."
"One other thing, Mr. Bakersfeld." The tower chief summarized Joe Patroni's
latest bulletin about runway three zero; the runway would be out of use for
at least another hour. Mel listened impatiently; at the moment, other
things seemed more important.
When he hung up, Mel repeated the information about Flight Two's position
to the D.T.M.
Tanya came off the other phone. She reported, "Operations found Captain
Kettering. He's coming."
"That woman-the passenger's wife," the D.T.M. said. "What was her name?"
Ned Ordway answered. "Inez Guerrero."
"Where is she?"
"We don't know." The policeman explained that his men were searching the
airport, although the woman might be gone. He added that city police
headquarters had been alerted, and all buses from the airport to downtown
were now being checked on arrival.
"When she was here," Mel explained, "we had no idea. . ."
The D.T.M. grunted. "We were all slow." He glanced at Tanya, then at
Customs Inspector Standish, who so far had not spoken. The D.T.M., Tanya
knew, was remembering ruefully his own instructions to "Forget it!"
Now he informed her, "We'll have to tell the captain of the flight
something. He's entitled to know as much as we do, even though so far we're
only guessing."
Tanya asked, "Shouldn't we send a description of Guerrero? Captain Demerest
may want to have him identified without his knowing."
"If you do," Mel pointed out, "we can help. There are people here who've
seen the man."
"All right," the D.T.M. acknowledged, "we'll work on that. Meanwhile,
Tanya, call our dispatcher. Tell him there's an important message coming in
a few minutes, and to get a Selcal circuit hooked into Flight Two.

I want this kept private, not broadcast for everybody. At least, not yet."
Tanya returned to the telephone.
Met asked Bunnie, "Are you Miss Vorobioff?"
As she nodded nervously, the eyes of the others turned to her.
Automatically, those of the men dropped to Bunnie's capacious breasts;
the D.T.M. seemed about to whistle, but changed his mind.
Mel said, "You realize which man we're talking about?"
"I … I'm not sure."
"It's a mari named D. 0. Guerrero. You sold him an insurance policy
tonight, didn't you?"
Bunnie nodded again. "Yes .
"When you wrote the policy, did you get a good look at him?"
She shook her head. "Not really." Her voice was low. She moistened her
lips.
Mel seemed surprised. "I thought on the phone .
"There were many other people," Bunnie said defensively.
"But you told me you remembered this one."
"It was someone else."
"And you don't recall the man Guerrero?"
"No. 11

Mel looked baffled.
"Let me, Mr. Bakersfeld." Ned Ordway took a pace for-ward; he put his
face near the girl's. "You're afraid of getting involved, aren't you?"
Ordway's voice was a harsh, policeman's voice, not at all the gentle tone
he used earlier tonight with Inez Guerrero.
Bunnie flinched, but didn't answer.
Ordway persisted, "Well, aren't you? Answer me."
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do! You're afraid to help anyone for fear of what it might do
to you. I know your kind." Ordway spat out the words contemptuously. This
was a savage, tough side of the lieutenant's nature which Mel had never
seen before. "Now you hear me, baby. If it's trouble you're scared of,
you're buying it right now. The

way to get out of trouble-if you can-is to answer questions. And answer
fast! We're running out of time."
Bunnie trembled. She had learned to fear police interrogation in the grim
school of Eastern Europe. It was a conditioning never totally erased.
Ordway had recognized the signs.
"Miss Vorobioff," Mel said. "There are almost two hundred people aboard the
airplane we're concerned with. They may be in great danger. Now, I'll ask
you again. Did you get a good look at the man Guerrero?"
Slowly, Bunnie nodded. "Yes."
"Describe him, please."
She did so, haltingly at first, then with more confidence.
While the others listened, a picture of D. 0. Guerrero emerged: gaunt and
spindly; a pale, sallow face with protruding jaw; long scrawny neck; thin
lips; a small sandy mustache; nervous hands with restless fingers. When she
got down to it, Bunnie Vorobioff proved herself a keen observer.
The D.T.M., now seated at Mel's desk, wrote the description, incorporating
it with a message for Flight Two which lie was drafting.
When Burmie came to the part about D. 0. Guerrero barely having enough
money-and no Italian money; the man's nervous tension, the fumbling with
dimes and pennies; his excitement on discovering a five-dollar bill in an
inside pocket, the D.T.M. looked up with a mixture of disgust and horror.
"My God! And you still issued a policy. Are you people mad?"
"I thought . . ." Bunnie started to say.
"You thought! But you didn't do anything, did you?"
Her face drained and white, Bunnie Vorobioff shook her head.
Mel reminded the D.T.M., "Bert, we're wasting time. 11
"I know, I know! Just the same The D.T.M. clenched the pencil he had been
using. He muttered, "It isn't just her, or even the people who employ her.
It's us –the airlmes; we're as much to blame. We agree with

the pilots about airport flight insurance, but haven't the guts to say so.
We let them do our dirty work. . ."
Mel said tersely to Customs Inspector Standish, "Harry, is there anything
you'd add to the description of Guerrero?"
"No," Standish said. "I wasn't as near to him as this young lady, and she
saw some things I didn't. But I did watch the way he held the case, as
you know, and I'd say this: If what you think is in there really is,
don't anyone try to grab that case away from him."
"So what do you suggest?"
The Customs man shook his head. "I'm no expert, so I can't tell you;
except, I guess you'd have to get it by some kind of trickery. But if
it's a bomb, it has to be self-contained in the case, and that means
somewhere there's a trigger, and the chances are it'll be the kind of
trigger he can get to quickly. He's possessive about the case now. If
someone tried to take it away, he'd figure he was found out and had
nothing to lose." Standish added grin-fly, "A trigger finger can get
mighty itchy."
"Of course," Mel said, "we still don't know if the man's an ordinary
eccentric, and all he's got in there are his pajamas."
"If you're asking my opinion," the Customs inspector said, "I don't think
so. I wish I did, because I've got a niece on that flight."
Standish had been conjecturing unhappily: If anything went wrong, how in
God's name would he break the news to his sister in Denver? He remembered
his last sight of Judy: that sweet young girl, playing with the baby from
the next seat. She had kissed him. Goodbye, Uncle Harry! Now, he wished
desperately that he had been more definite, had acted more responsibly,
about the man with the attach6 case.
Well, Standish thought, though it might be late, at least he would be
definite now.
"I'd like to say something else." Tle eyes of the others swung to him.
"I have to tell you this because we haven't time to waste on modesty: I'm
a good judge of people, mostly on first sight, and usually I can smell
the bad ones. It's

an instinct, and don't ask me how it works because I couldn't tcll you,
except that in my job some of us get to be that way. I spotted that man
tonight, and I said he was 'suspicious'; I used that word because I was
thinking of smuggling, which is the way I'm trained. Now, knowing what we
do-even little as it is-I'd make it stronger. The man Guerrero is
dangerous." Standish eyed the Trans America D.T.M. "Mr. Weatherby-get that
word 'dangerous' across to your people in the air."
"I intend to, Inspector." The D.T.M. looked up from his writing. Most of
what Standish had been saying was already included in the message for
Flight Two.
Tanya, still on the telephone, was talking with Trans America's New York
dispatcher by tie line. "Yes, it will be a long message. Will you put
someone on to copy, please?"
A sharp knock sounded on the office door and a tall man with a seamed,
weatherworn face and sharp blue eyes came in from the anteroom. He
carried a heavy topcoat and wore a blue serge suit which might have been
a uniform, but wasn't. The newcomer nodded to Mel, but before either
could speak, the D.T.M. cut in.
"Royce, thanks for coming quickly. We seem to have some trouble." He held
out the notepad on which he had been writing.
Captain Kettering, the base chief pilot for Trans America, read the draft
message carefully, his only reaction a tightening at the mouth as his
eyes moved down the page. Like many others, including the D.T.M., it was
unusual for the chief pilot to be at the airport this late at night. But
exigencies of the three-day storm, with the need for frequent operating
decisions, had kept him here.
ne second telephone rang, cutting through the temporary silence. Mel
answered it, then motioned to Ned Ordway who took the receiver.
Captain Kettering finished reading. The D.T.M. asked, "Do you agree to
sending that? We've dispatch standing by with a Selcal hook-up."
Kettering nodded. "Yes, but I'd like you to add:

'Suggest return or alternate landing at captain's discretion,' and have
the dispatcher give them the latest weather."
"Of course," The D.T.M. penciled in the extra words, then passed the pad
to Tanya. She began dictating the message.
Captain Kettering glanced at the others in the room. "Is that everything
we know?"
"Yes," Mel said. "It is, so far."
"We may know more soon," Lieutenant Ordway said. He had returned from the
telephone. "We just found Guerrero's wife."

The message from D.T.M. Lincoln International was addressed, CAPTAIN,
'FRANS AMERICA FLIGHT Two, and began:

UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS THAT MALE TOURIST PASSEN(;ER D. 0.
GUERRERO A130ARD YOUR FLIGHT MAY HAVE EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN HIS POSSESSION.
PASSENGER WITH NO LUGGAGE AND APPARENTLY WITHOUT FUNDS INSURED SELF
HFAVILY BEFORE DEPARTURE. WAS OBSERVED BEHAVING SUSPICIOUSLY WITH ATTACHE
TYPE BRIEFCASE CARRIED AS HAND BAGGAGE. DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS …

As the D.T.M. had foreseen, it took several minutes for a connection to
be established, through company radio, with Flight Two. Since the earlier
Selcal message to the flight, concerning its stowaway Mrs. Ada Quonsett,
the aircraft had moved out of Trans America's Cleveland dispatch area
into that of New York . Now, company messages must be passed through a New
York dispatcher for relaying to the flight.
The message, as Tanya dictated it, was being typed by a girl clerk in New
York . Alongside the clerk a Trans America dispatcher read the first few
lines, then reached for a direct phone to an operator at ARINC-a private
communications network maintained cooperatively by all major airlines.

The ARINC operator-at another location in New York-set up a second
circuit between himself and Trans America dispatch, then punched into a
transmitter keyboard a four-letter code, AGFG, specifically assigned to
aircraft N-731-TA. Once more, like a telephone call to a single number
on a party line, an alerting signal would be received aboard Flight Two
only.
A few moments later the voice of Captain Vernon Demerest, responding from
high above Ontario, Canada, was audible in New York. "This is Trans
America Two answering Selcal."
"Trans America Two, this is New York dispatch. We have an important
message. Advise when ready to copy.
A brief' pause, then Demerest again. "Okay, New York. Go ahead."
"CAPTAIN, FLIGHT Two," the dispatcher began. "UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY
EXISTS…"

Inez had still been sitting quietly, in her comer near the food counter,
when she felt her shoulder shaken.
"Inez Guerrero! Are you Mrs. Guerrero?"
She looked up. It took several seconds to cotlect her thoughts, which had
been vague and drifting, but she realized that it was a policeman who was
standing over her.
He shook her again and repeated the question.
Inez managed to nod. She became aware that this was a different policeman
from the earlier one. This one was white, and neither as gentle nor as
softly spoken as the other.
"Let's move it, lady!" The policeman tightened his grip on her shoulder
in a way which hurt, and pulled her abruptly to her feet. "You hear
me?-let's go! They're screamin' for you upstairs, and every cop in the
joint's bin searchin' for you."
Ten minutes later, in Mel's office, Inez was the pivot of attention. She
occupied a chair in the room's center to which she had been guided on
arrival. Lieutenant

Ordway faced her. The policeman who had escorted Inez in was gone.
The others who had been present earlier-Mel, Tanya, Customs Inspector
Standish, Bunnie Vorobioff, the Trans America D.T.M., Weatherby, and the
chief pilot, Captain Kettering, were ranged about the room. All had
remained at Mel's request.
"Mrs. Guerrero," Ned Ordway said. "Why is your husband going to Rome?"
Inez stared back bleakly and didn't answer. The policeman's voice
sharpened, though not unkindly. "Mrs. Guerrero, please listen to me
carefully. There are some important questions which I have to ask. They
concern your husband, and I need your help. Do you understand?"
"I … I'm not sure."
"You don't have to be sure about why I'm asking the questions. There'll be
time for that later. What I want you to do is help me by answering. Will
you? Please."
The D.T.M. cut in urgently. "Lieutenant, we haven't got all night. That
air-plane is moving away from us at six hundred miles an hour. If we have
to, let's get tough. "
"Leave this to me, Mr. Weatherby," Ordway said sharply. "If we all start
shouting, it'll take a lot more time to get a great deal less."
The D.T.M. continued to look impatient, but kept quiet.
"Inez," Ordway said; is it okay if I call you
Inez?"
She nodded.
"Inez, will you answer my questions?"
"Yes … if I can."
"Why is your husband going to Rome?"
Her voice was strained, barely more than a whisper. "I don't know."
"Do you have friends there; relatives?"
"No . . . There is a distant cousin in Milan, but we have never seen him."
"Do vour husband and the cousin correspond?"
"No.;,

"Can you think of any reason why your husband would go to visit the
cousin-suddenly?"
"There is no reason."
Tanya interjected, "In any case, Lieutenant, if anyone was going to Milan
they wouldn't use our Rome flight. They'd fly Alitalia, which is direct
and cbeaper-and Alitalia has a flight tonight, too."
Ordway nodded. "We can probably rule out the cousin." He asked Inez,
"Does your husband have business in Italy?"
She shook her head.
"What is your husband's business?"
"He is . . . was … a contractor."
"What kind of contractor?"
Slowly but perceptibly, Inez's grasp of things was coming back. "He built
buildings, houses, developments."
"You said 'was.' Why isn't he a contractor now?"
"Things … went wrong."
"You mean financially?"
"Yes, but … why are you asking?"
"Please believe me, Inez," Ordway said, "I've a good reason. It concerns
your husband's safety, as well as others'. Will you take my word?"
She looked up. Her eyes met his. "All right."
"Is your husband in financial trouble now?"
She hesitated only briefly. "Yes."
"Bad trouble?"
Inez nodded slowly.
"Is he broke? In debt?"
Again a whisper." Yes."
"Then where did be get money for his fare to Rome?"
"I think . . ." Inez started to say something about her ring which D.O.
had pawned, then remembered the Trans America Airlines time payment
contract. She took the now-creased yellow sheet from her purse and gave
it to Ordway who glanced over it. The D.T.M. joined him.
"It's Made out to 'Buerrero,' " the D.T.M. said. "Though the signature
could be anything."

Tanya pointed out, "Buerrero is the name we had at first on the flight
manifest."
Ned Ordway shook his head. "It isn't important now, but it's an old trick
if anyone has a lousy credit rating. They use a wrong first letter so the
bad rating won't show up in inquiry-at least, not in a hurry. Later, if the
mistake's discovered, it can be blamed on whoever filled out the form."
Ordway swung sternly back to Inez. He had the yellow printed sheet in hand.
"Why did you agree to this when you knew your husband was defrauding?"
She protested, "I didn't know."
"Then how is it you have this paper now?"
Haltingly, she related how she had found it earlier this evening, and had
come to the airport, hoping to intercept her husband before departure.
"So until tonight you had no idea that he was going?" "No, sir."
"Anywhere at all?"
Inez shook her head.
"Even now, can you think of any reason for him going?"
She looked bewildered. "No."
"Does your husband ever do irrational things?"
Inez hesitated.
"Well," Ordway said, "does he?"
"Sometimes, lately . . ."
"He has been irrational?"
A whisper. "Yes."
"ViolentT'
Reluctantly, Inez nodded.
"Your husband was carrying a case tonight," Ordway said quietly. "A small
attach6 case, and he seemed specialty cautious about it. Have you any idea
what might be inside?"
"No, sir."
"Inez, you said your husband was a contractor-a building ~ontractor. In the
course of his work did he ever use explosives?"
The quc,~tion had been put so casually and without preamble, that those
listening seemed scarcely aware it

had been asked. But as its import dawned, there was a sudden tenseness in
the room.
"Oh, yes," Inez said. "Often."
Ordway paused perceptibly before asking, "Does your husband know a lot
about explosives?"
"I think so. He always liked using them. But Abruptly, she stopped.
"But what, Inez?"
Suddenly there was a nervousness to Inez Guerrero's speech which had not
been there before. "But . . . he handles them very carefully." Her eyes
moved around the room. "Please … what is this about?"
Ordway said softly, "You have an idea, Inez; haven't you?"
When she didn't answer, almost;with indifference he asked, "Where are you
living?"
She gave the address of the South Side apartment and he wrote it down.
"Is that where your husband was this afternoon; earlier this evening?"
Thoroughly frightened now, she nodded.
Ordway turned to Tanya. Without raising his voice, he asked, "Get a line
open, please, to police headquarters downtown; this extension"-he
scribbled a number on a pad. "Ask them to hold."
Tanya went quickly to Mel's desk.
Ordway asked Inez, "Did your husband have any explosives in the
apartment?" As she hesitated, he bore in with sudden toughness. "You've
told the truth so far; don't lie to me now! Did he?"
"Yes. 1)

"What kind of explosives?"
"Some dynamite . . . and caps . . . They were left over."
"From his contracting work?"
"Yes. 11

"Did he ever say anything about them? Give a reason for keeping them?"
Inez shook her head. "Only, that . . . if you knew how to handle them .
. . they were safe."
"Where were the explosives kept?"
"Just in a drawer."

"In a drawer where?"
"The bedroom." An expression of sudden shock crossed Inez Guerrero's
face. Ordway spotted it.
"You thought of something then! What was it?"
"Nothing!" Panic was in her eyes and voice.
"Yes, you did!" Ned Ordway leaned for-ward, close to Inez, his face
aggressive. For the second time in this room tonight he exhibited nothing
of kindness; only the rough, tough savagery of a policeman who needed an
answer and would get it. He shouted, "Don't try holding back or lying!
It won't work. Tell me what it was you thought." As Inez whimpered:
"Never mind that! Tell me!"
"Tonight … I didn't think of it before . the things

"The dynamite and caps?"
"Yes.,'
"You're wasting time! What about them?"
Inez whispered, "They were gone!"
Tanya said quietly, "I have your call, Lieutenant. They're holding."
No one among the others spoke.
Ordway nodded, his eyes still fixed on Inez. "Did you know that tonight,
before your husband's flight took off, he insured himself heavily-very
heavily indeednaming you as beneficiary?"
"No, sir. I swear I don't know anything. .
"I believe you," Ordway said. He stopped, considering, and when he spoke
again his voice grated harshly.
"Inez Guerrero, listen to me carefully. We believe your husband has those
explosives, which you've told us about, with him tonight. We think be
carried them onto that Rome flight, and, since there can be no other
explanation for having them there, that he intends to destroy the
airplane, killing himself and everyone else aboard. Now, I've one more
question, and before you answer, think carefully, and remember those
other people-innocent people, including children-who are on that flight,
too. Inez, you know your husband; you know him as well as anyone alive.
Could he … for the insurance money; for you … could he do what I have
just said?"

Tears streamed down Inez Guerrero's face. She seemed near collapse, but
nodded slowly.
"Yes." Her voice was choked. "Yes, I think he could."
Ned Ordway turned away. He took the telephone from Tanya and began
speaking rapidly in a low tone. He gave information, interspersed with
several requests.
Once Ordway paused, swinging back to Inez Guerrero. "Your apartment is
going to be searched, and we'll get a warrant if necessary. But it wiU
be easier if you consent. Do you?"
Inez nodded dully.
"Okay," Ordway said into the telephone, "she agrees." A minute or so
later he hung up.
Ordway told the D.T.M. and Mel, "We'll collect the evidence in the
apartment, if there's any there. Apart from that, at the moment, there
isn't a lot we can do."
The D.T.M. said grimly, "There isn't a lot any of us can do, except maybe
pray." His face strained and gray, he began writing a new message for
Flight Two.

9

The hot hors d'oeuvres, which Captain Vernon Demerest had called for, had
been served to the pilots of Flight Two. The appetizing assortment on a
tray, brought by one of the stewardesses from the first class galley, was
disappearing fast. Demerest grunted appreciatively as he bit into a
lobster-and-mushroom tartlet garnished with Parmesan cheese.
As usual, the stewardesses were pursuing their earnpaign to fatten the
skinny young second officer, Cy Jordan. Surreptitiously they had slipped
him a few extra hors d'oeuvres on a separate plate behind the two cap-
tains and now, while Jordan fiddled with fuel crossfeed valves, his
cheeks bulged with chicken livers in bacon.

Soon, all three pilots, relaxing in turn in the dimly lighted cockpit,
would be brought the same delectable entree and dessert which the airline
served its first class passengers. The only things the passengers would
get, which the crew did not, were table wine and champagne.
Trans America, like most airlines, worked hard at providing an excellent
cuisine aloft. There were some who argued that airlines-even
international airlinesshould concern themselves solely with
transportation, gear their in-flight service to commuter standards, and
dispense with frills, including meals of any higher quality than a box
lunch. Others, however, believed that too much of modem travel had become
established at box lunch level, and welcomed the touch of style and
elegance which good airborne meals provided. Airlines received remarkably
few complaints about food service. Most passengers-tourist and first
class-welcomed the meals as a diversion and consumed them zestfully.
Vernon Demerest, searching out with his tongue the last succulent
particles of lobster, was thinking much the same thing. At that moment
the Selcal call chime sounded loudly in the cockpit and the radio panel
warning light flashed on.
Anson Harris's eyebrows went up. A single call on Selcal was out of the
ordinary; two within less than an hour were exceptional.
"What we need," Cy Jordan said from behind, "is an unlisted number."
Demerest reached out to switch radios. "I'll get it."
After the mutual identification between Flight Two and New York dispatch,
Vernon Demerest began writing on a message pad under a hooded light. The
message was from D.T.M. Lincoln International, and began: UNCONFIRMED
POSSIBILITY EXISTS . . . As the wording progressed, Demerest's features,
in the light's reflection, tautened. At the end he acknowledged briefly
and signed off without comment.
Dernerest handed the message pad to Anson Harris, who read it, leaning
toward a light beside him. Harris

whistled softly. He passed the pad over his shoulder to Cy Jordan.
The Selcal message ended: SUGGEST RETURN OR ALTERNATE LANDING AT
CAPTAIN'S DISCRETION.
As both captains knew, there was a question of command to be decided.
Although Anson Harris had been flying tonight as captain, with Demerest
performing first officer duty, Vernon Demerest-as check pilot-had
overriding authority if he chose to exercise it.
Now, in response to Harris's questioning glance, Demcrest said brusquely,
"You're in the left seat. What are we waiting for?"
Harris considered only briefly, then announced, "We'll turn back, but
making a wide slow turn; that way, passengers shouldn't notice. Then
we'll have Gwen Meighen locate this guy they're worried about, because
it's a sure thing one of us can't show up in the cabin, or we'll alert
him." He shrugged. "After that, I guess we play it by ear."
"Okay," Demerest assented. "You get us faced around; I'll handle the
cabin end." He depressed the stewardess call button, using a three-ring
code to summon Gwen.
On a radio frequency he had been using earlier, Anson Harris called air
route control. He announced laconically, "This is Trans America Two. We
seem to have a problem here. Request clearance back to Lincoln, and radar
vector from present position to Lincoln."
Harris's swift reasoning had already ruled out landing at an alternate
air-port. Ottawa, Toronto, and Detroit, they had been informed at
briefing, were closed to air traffic because of the storm. Besides, to
deal with the man they were concerned about back in the cabin, the crew
of Flight Two needed time. Returning to Lincoln International would
provide it.
He had no doubt that Demerest had reached the same conclusion.
From Toronto Air Route Center, more than six miles below, a controller's
voice responded. "Trans America

Two, Roger." A brief pause, then: "You may begin a left turn now to heading
two seven zero. Stand by for an altitude change."
"Roger, Toronto. We are commencing the turn. We'd like to make it wide and
gradual."
"Trans America Two. A wide turn approved."
The exchange was low key, as such exchanges usually were. Both in the air
and on the ground there was mutual awareness that most would be gained by
calm, least by dramatics or excitement. By the nature of Flight Two's
request, the ground controller was instantly aware that an emergency-real
or potential-existed. Jetliners, in flight at cruising altitude, did not
abruptly reverse course without a major reason. But the controller also
knew that if and when the captain was ready, he would officially declare an
emergency and report its cause. Until then, the controller would not waste
the time of the crew-undoubtedly occupied with urgent business' of their
own-by asking needless questions.
Whatever help was sought from air route control, however, would be given
without query, and as speedily as possible.
Even now, on the ground, procedural wheels were turning. At Toronto Air
Route Center, located in a handsome modem building some fourteen miles
beyond the city limits, the controller receiving Flight Two's transmission
had summoned a supervisor. The supervisor was liaising with other sectors,
clearing a path ahead of Flight Two, as well as altitudes immediately
below-the last as a precaution. Cleveland Center, which earlier had passed
the flight to Toronto Center and now would receive it back, had been
alerted also. Chicago Center, which would take over from Cleveland, was
being notified.
On the flight deck of Flight Two, a new air route control message was
coming in. "Begin descent to flight level two eight zero. Report leaving
flight level three three zero."
Anson Harris acknowledged. "Toronto Center, this is Trans America Two. We
are beginning descent now."
On Harris's orders, Second Officer Jordan was re-

porting to Trans America dispatch, by company radio, the decision to return.
The door from the forward cabin opened. Gwen Meighen came in.
"Listen," she said, "if it's more hors d'oeuvres, I'm sorry, but you can't
have them. In case you hadn't noticed, we happen to have a few passengers
aboard."
"I'll deal with the insubordination later," Demerest said. "Right now"-lie
mimicked Gwen's English accent – we've got a spot o' bother."
Superficially, little had changed on the flight deck since a few moments
ago when the message from D.T.M. Lincoln had come in. Yet, subtly, the
relaxed mood prevailing earlier had vanished. Despite their studied
composure, the three-man crew was all-professional and sharp, their minds
at peak acuity, each sensing the adjustment in the other two. It was to
achieve such moments, responsively and quickly, that years of training and
experience marked the long route to airline captaincy. Flying
itself-controlling an airplane-was not a difficult achievement; what
commercial pflots were paid high salaries for was their reserve of
resourcefulness, airmanship, and general aviation wisdom. Demerest, Harris,
and-to a lesser extent-Cy Jordan, were summoning their reserves now. The
situation aboard Flight Two was not yet critical; with luck, it might not
be critical at all. But if a crisis arose, mentally the crew was ready.
"I want you to locate a passenger," Demerest told Gwen. "He isn't to know
that you're looking for him. We have a description here. You'd better read
the whole thing." He handed her the pad with the Selcal message. She moved
nearer, holding it under the hooded light beside him.
As the aircraft rolled slightly, Gwen's hand brushed Vernon Demerest's
shoulder. He was conscious of her closeness and a faint famfliar perfume.
Glancing sideways, he could see Gwen's profile in the semidarkness. Her
expression as she read was serious, but not dismayed; it reminded him of
what he had admired so much earlier this evening-her strength in no way
less-

ening her femininity. In a swift, fleeting second he remembered that twice
tonight Gwen had declared she loved him. lie had wondered then: had he
ever truly been in love himself? When you kept tight rein on personal
emotions, you were never absolutely sure. But at this moment, instinct
told him, his feeling about Gwen was the closest to loving he would ever
know.
Gwen was reading the message again, more slowly.
Momentarily he felt a savage anger at this new circurnstance which was
contriving to delay their planshis own and Gwen's-for Naples. Then he
checked himself. This was a moment for professionalism only. Besides,
what was happening now would merely mean delay, perhaps for a full
twenty-four hours after their return to Lincoln; but eventually the
flight would go. It did not occur to him that the bomb threat might not
be disposed of quickly, or that it would fail to end as tamely as most
others.
Alongside Demerest, Anson Harris was still holding the aircraft in its
gentle turn, using only the slightest amount of hank. It was a perfect
turn, exactly executed, as demonstrated by each pilot's needle and ball
indicator-the granddaddy of aviation flight instruments, still used on
modern jets, as it was used in Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis, and
airplanes long before. The needle was tilted, the ball dead center. But
only compass and gyro betrayed the extent of the turn-that Flight Two was
coming around a hundred and eighty degrees in course. Harris had declared
that passengers would be unaware of the course reversal, and be would be
right-unless someone, peering through a cabin window, happened to be
familiar with positions of stars and moon in relation to westerly and
easterly courses. Then they would observe the change, but that was a
chance which had to be taken; fortunately, the ground being obscured by
cloud meant that no one could see and identify cities. Now Harris was
beginning to lose height also, the aircraft's nose lowered slightly, with
throttles pulled back the barest amount, so that the note of engines
would change no more than was usual during any flight. Harris was

concentrating, flying with textbook precision, ignoring Gwen and Demerest.
Gwen handed the message pad back.
"What I want you to do," Demerest instructed her, "is go back and locate
this man. See if there's any sign of the bag, and whether there's a good
chance of getting it away from him. You realize that one of us from here
can't go back-at least for now-in case we scare him."
"Yes," Gwen said. "I understand that. But I don't need to go either."
"Why?"
She said quietly, "I know where he is already. In seat fourteen-A."
Vernon Demerest regarded her searchingly. "I don't have to tell you that
this is important. If you've any doubt, go back and make sure."
"I haven't any doubt."
Half an hour or so ago, Gwen explained, after serving dinners in first
class, she had gone aft into the tourist section to help out there. One
of the passengers-in a window seat on the left-had been dozing. When Gwen
spoke to him he awakened instantly. He was nursing a small attach6 case
on his knees and Gwen sua-,ested that she take it, or that he put it
down, while having dinner. The passenger refused. He continued to hold
the case where it was, and she noticed that he clasped it as if it were
important. Later, instead of letting down the folding table from the back
of the seat ahead, he used the case. still held on his lap, to support
his dinner tray. Accustomed to passengers' peculiarities, Gwen thought
no more of it, though she remembered the man well. The description in the
message fitted him exactly.
"Another reason I remember is that he's sitting right alongside the old
lady stowaway."
"He's in a window seat, you say?"
"Yes. 11
"That makes it harder-to reach across and grab." Demerest was remembering
the portion of the D.T.M.'s message: IF SUPPOSITION TRUE, LIKELY THAT
TRIGGER FOR EXPLOSIVES WILL BE ON OUTSIDE OF CASE AND EASILY REACHABLE.
THEREFORE USE EXTREME CAUTION
3% AIRPORT

IN ATTEMPTING TO SEIZE CASE FORCIBLY. He guessed that Gwen, too, was
thinking of that warning.
For the fiist time a feeling, not of fear but doubt, intruded on his
reasoning. Fear might come later, but not yet. Was there a possibility
that this bomb scare might prove to be more than a scare? Vernon Demerest
had thought and talked of this kind of situation often enough, yet could
never really believe it would happen to himself.
Anson Harris was easing out of the turn as gently as he had gone into it.
They were now headed around completely.
The Selcal chime sounded again. Demerest motioned to Cy Jordan, who
switched radios and answered, then began copying down a message.
Anson Harris was talking once more with Toronto Air Route Center.
"I wonder," Vernon Demerest said to Gwen, "if there's any chance of
getting those other two passengers alongside Guerrero out of their seats.
That way he'd be left there, in the three-seat section, on his own. Then
maybe one of us could come from behind, lean over and grab."
"He'd suspect," Gwen said emphatically. "I'm sure he would. He's edgy
now. The moment we got those other people out, whatever excuse we used,
he'd know something was wrong and he'd be watching and waiting."
The second officer passed over the Selcal message he had been copying.
It was from D.T.M. Lincoln. Using the hooded light, Gwen and Demerest
read it together.

NEW INFORMATION INDICATES EARLIER POSSIBILITY OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN
POSSESSION OF PASSENGER GUERRERO IS NOW STRONG PROBABILITY REPEAT
STRONG PROBABILITY. PASSENGER BELIEVED MENTALLY DISTURBED, DESPERATE.
REPEAT PREVIOUS WARNING TO APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION. GOOD LUCK.

"I like that last bit," Cy Jordan said. "That's real nice, wishing us
that."

Dernerest said brusquely, "Shut up!"
For several seconds-apart from routine flight deck sounds-there was
silence.
"If there were some way," Dernerest said slowly, some way we could trick
him into letting go of that case. AR we'd need would be a few seconds to
have our hands on it, then get it clear away . if we were quick, two
seconds would be enough."
Gwen pointed out, "He wouldn't even put it down . . .
"I know! I know! I'm thinking, that's all." He stopped. "Let's go over
it again. There are two passengers between Guerrero and the aisle. One
of them . . ."
"One of them is a man; he has the aisle seat. In the middle is the old
lady, Mrs. Quonsett. Then Guerrero."
"So grandma's right beside Guerrero; right alongside the case."
"Yes, but how does it help? Even if we could let her know, she couldn't
possibly
Dernerest said sharply, "You haven't said anything to her yet? She
doesn't know we're on to her?"
"No. You told me not to."
"Just wanted to be sure."
Again they were silent. Vernon Dernerest concentrated, thinking, weighing
possibilities. At length he said carefully, "I have an idea. It may not
work, but at the moment it's the best we have. Now listen, while I tell
you exactly what to do."

In the tourist section of Flight Two most passengers had finished dinner,
and stewardesses were briskly removing trays. The meal service had gone
faster than usual tonight. One reason was that due to the delayed
takeoff, some passengers had eaten in the terminal and now, because of
the lateness of the hour, they had either declined dinner or merely
nibbled at it.
At the three-seat unit where Mrs. Ada Quonsett was still chatting with
her new friend, the oboe player, one of the tourist cabin stewardesses-a
pert young blonde –asked, "Have you finished with your trays?"
"Yes, I have, miss," the oboist said.

Mrs. Quonsett smiled warmly. "Thank you, my dear; you may take mine. It
was very nice."
The dour man on Mrs. Quonsett's left surrendered his tray without
comment.
It was only then that the little old lady from San Diego became aware of
the other stewardess standing in the aisle.
She was one whom Mrs. Quonsett had observed several times previously, and
appeared to be in charge of the other girls. She had deep black hair, an
attractive, high-cheekboned face, and strong dark eyes which at the
moment were focused, directly and coolly, on Ada Quonsett.
"Pardon me, madam. May I see your ticket?"
"My ticket? Why, of course." Mrs. Quonsett affected surprise, though she
guessed immediately what lay behind the request. Obviously her stowaway
status was either suspected or known. But she had never given up easily,
and even now her wits were working. A question was: how much did this
girl know?
Mrs. Quonsett opened her purse and pretended to search among its papers.
"I know I had it, my dear. It must be here somewhere." She glanced up,
her expression innocent. "That is, unless the ticket man took it when I
came aboard. Perhaps he kept it and I didn't notice."
"No," Gwen Meighen said, "he wouldn't have. If it was a round-trip
ticket, you'd be holding a return flight coupon. And if it was one-way,
you'd still have the ticket stub and boarding folder."
"Well, it certainly seems strangeMrs. Quonsett
continued fumbling in her purse.
Gwen inquired coldly, "Shall I look?" From the beginning of their
exchange, she had shown none of her customary friendliness. She added,
"If there's a ticket in Your purse, I'll find it. If there isn't, it will
save us both wasting time."
"Certainly not," Mrs. Ouonsett said severely. Then, relenting: "I realize
you mean no harm, my dear, but I have private papers here. You, being
English, should respect privacy. You are English, aren't you?"
AIRPORT ~ 399

"Whether I am or not doesn't matter. At this moment we're talking about
your ticket. That is, if you have one." Gwen's voice, pitched louder than
usual, was audible several seats away. Heads of other passengers were
turning.
"Oh, I have a ticket. It's just a question of where it is." Mrs. Quonsett
smiled engagingly. "About your being English, though, I could tell you were
from the very first moment you spoke. So many English people –people like
you, my dear-make our language sound delightful. It's such a pity so few of
us Americans can do the same. My late husband always used to say . . .' :
"Never mind what he said. What about your tickeff
It was hard for Gwen to be as rude and unpleasant as she was being. In the
ordinary way she would have dealt with this old woman firmly, yet remained
friendly and good-natured; Gwen also had a reluctance to bully someone more
than twice her own age. But before she left the flight deck, Vernon had
been explicit in his instructions.
Mrs. Ouonsett looked a little shocked. "I'm being patient with you, young
lady. But when I do discover my ticket I shall certainly have something to
say about your attitude . . ."
"Will you really, Mrs. Quonsett?" Gwen saw the old woman start at the use
of her name, and for the first time there was a weakening behind the prim
faqade. Gwen persisted, "You are Ada Quonsett, aren't you?"
The little old lady patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, then sighed.
"Since you know I am, there's no point in denying it, is there?"
"No, because we know all about you. You've got quite a record, Mrs.
Quonsett."
More passengers were watching and listening now; one or two had left their
seats to move closer. Their expressions were sympathetic for the old lady,
critical of Gwen. The man in the aisle seat, who had been talking with Mrs.
Quonsett when Gwen arrived, shifted uncomfortably. "If there's some
misunderstanding, perhaps I can help. . ."

"There's no misunderstanding," Gwen said. "Are you traveling with this
lady?"
"No. 11

"Then there's nothing you need concern yourself about, sir."
So far, Gwen had not let herself look directly at the man seated farthest
away, by the window, whom she knew to be Guerrero. Nor had he looked at
her, though she could tell by the inclination of his head that he was
listening intently to everything that was being said. Also without being
obvious, she observed that be was still clasping the small attach6 case
on his knees. At the thought of what the case might contain she
experienced a sudden, icy fear. She felt herself tremble, with a pre-
monition of something terrible to come. She wanted to run, return to the
flight deck and tell Vernon to handle this himself. But she didn't, and
the moment of weakness passed.
"I said we know all about you, and we do," Gwen assured Mrs. Quonsett.
"You were caught earlier today as a stowaway on one of our flights from
Los Angeles. You were placed in custody, but you managed to slip away.
Then, by lying, you got aboard this flight."
The little old lady from San Diego said brightly, "If you know so much,
or think you do, it won't do any good arguing about it." Well, she
decided, it was no good worrying now. After all, she had expected to get
caught; at least she hadn't been until she'd had an adventure and a good
dinner. Besides, what did it matter? As the redheaded woman back at
Lincoln admitted, airlines never prosecuted stowaways.
She was curious, though, about what came next. "Are we going to turn
back?"
"You're not that important. When we land in Italy you'll be banded over
to the authorities." Vernon Demerest had warned Gwen to let it be thought
that Flight Two was proceeding on to Rome, certainly not to admit that
they were already turned around and heading back. He also impressed on
her that she must be rough with the old lady, which Gwen had not enjoyed.
But it was necessary to make an impression on the passenger Guerrero, to
carry out Demerest's next step.

Though Guerrero didn't know it-and if all went well, he would not know
until too late to make any difference-this entire performance was solely
for his benefit.
"You're to come with me," Gwen instructed Mrs. Quonsett. "The captain has
had a signal about you, and he has to make a report. Before he does, he
wants to see you." She asked the man in the aisle seat, "Will you let
this woman out, please?"
For the first time the old lady looked nervous. "The captain wants me?"
"Yes, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Hesitantly, Mrs. Quonsett released her seat belt. As the oboe player
moved out, unhappily, to let her pass, she stepped uncertainly into the
aisle. Taking her arm, Gwen propelled her for-ward, conscious of hostile
glances atl around-directed at herself-as they went.
Gwen resisted an impulse to turn, to see if the man with the case was
watching too.
"I'm Captain Demerest," Vernon Demerest said. "Please come in-as far
for-ward as you can. Gwen, shut the door and let's see if we can squeeze
everybody in." He smiled at Mrs. Quonsett. "I'm afraid they don't design
flight decks for entertaining visitors."
The old lady from San Diego peered toward him. After the bright lights
of the passenger cabin from which she had just come, her eyes were not
yet adjusted to the cockpit's semidarkness. All she could make out were
shadowy figures, seated, surrounded by dozens of redly glowing dials. But
there had been no mistaking the friendliness of the voice. Its effect and
tone were far different from what she had braced herself to expec*t.
Cy Jordan pushed an armrest upward on an empty crew seat behind Anson
Harris. Gwen-gently, in contrast to her behavior of a few minutes
ago-guided the old lady into the seat.
There was still no turbulence outside, which made it easy to move around.
Though losing height, they were still far above the storm, and despite
the airplane's speed of rnore than five hundred miles an hour, it was
riding easily as if on a calm, untroubled sea.
"Mrs. Quonsett," Vernon Demerest said, "whatever

happened outside just now, you can forget it. It's not the reason you were
brought here." He asked Gwen, "Were you pretty rough with her?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Miss Meighen was acting on my orders. I told her to do exactly what she
did. We knew one particular person would be watching and listening. We
wanted it to look good, to have a plausible reason for bringing you here."
The big shadowy figure speaking from the right-hand seat was becoming
clearer to Ada Quonsett now. From what she could see of his face, he seemed
a kind man, she thought. At the moment, of course, she had no idea what he
was talking about. She looked about her. It was all very interesting. She
had never been on a ffight deck before. It was much more crowded and a
smaller space than she expected. It was also warm, and the three men whom
she could now see were all in shirtsleeves. This would certainly be
something else to tell her daughter in New York-if she ever got there.
"Grandma," the man who had introduced himself as the captain said, "do you
get frightened easily?"
It seemed an odd question, and she thought about it before answering. "Not
easily, I think. I get nervous sometimes, though not as much as I used to.
When you get older there isn't a lot left to be frightened of."
The captain's eyes were fixed searchingly on her fare. "I've decided to
tell you something, then ask for your help. We don't have too much time, so
I'll make it fast. I suppose you've noticed the man sitting next to you,
back in the cabin-on the window side."
"The skinny one, with the little mustache?"
"Yes," Gwen said. "That's him."
Mrs. Quonsett nodded. "He's a strange one. He won't talk to anybody, and he
has a little case with him that he won't let go of. I think he's worried
about something."
"We're worried, too," Vernon Demerest said quietly. "We've reason to
believe that in that case he has a bomb. We want to get it away from him.
That's why I need your help."
One of the surprising things about being up here with the pilots, Ada
Quonsett thought, was how quiet it was.

In the silence which followed what had just been said, she could hear a
message coming in on an overhead speaker near where she was seated. "Trans
America Two, this is Toronto Center. Your position is fifteen mdes east
of KJeinburg beacon. Advise your flight level and intentions."
The man in the other front seat, on the left, whose face she hadn't yet
seen, was answering. "Toronto Center from Trans America Two. Leaving
flight level two niner zero. Request continued slow descent until we
advise. No change in our intentions to return for landing at Lincoln."
"Roger, Trans America. We are clearing traffic ahead of you. You may
continue slow descent."
A third man, at a little table to her right, facing still more dials,
leaned across to the one who had been speaking. "I make it an hour and
seventeen minutes in. That's using forecast winds, but if the front's
moved faster than expected, it could be less."
"We are going back, aren't we?" Mrs. Quonsett found it hard to restrain
the excitement in her voice.
Demerest nodded. "But you're the only one who knows, besides ourselves.
For the time being you must keep it a secret, and above all,
Guerrero-that's the man with the case-mustn't find out."
Ada Ouonsett thought breathlessly: was this really happening to her? It
was all quite thrilling, like something on TV. It was a little
frightening perhaps, but she decided not to think too much about that.
The main thing was-she was here, a part of it all, hobnobbing with the
captain, sharing secrets, and what would her daughter say about that?
"Well, will you help us?"
"Oh, of course. I expect you want me to see if I can get that case away
. , ."
"No!" Vernon Demerest swung farther around, leaning over the back of his
seat for emphasis. He said sternly, "You must not so much as put your
hands on that case, or even near it."
"If you say so," Mrs. Quonsett acknowledged meekly, "I won't."
"I do say so. And remember, it's important that

Guerrero have no idea we know about his case or what's inside. Now, as I
did with Miss Meighen a little while ago, I'm going to tell you exactly
what to do when you go back to the cabin. Please listen carefully."
When he had finished, the little old lady from San Diego permitted
herself a small, brief smile. "Oh, yes; yes, I think I can do that."
She was getting out of her seat, with Gwen about to open the flight deck
door for them to go, when Demerest asked, "That flight from Los Angeles
you stowed away on-they said you were trying to reach New York. Why?"
She told him about being lonely sometimes on the West coast, and wanting
to visit her married daughter in the east.
"Grandma," Vernon Dernerest said, "if we pull this off I'll personally
guarantee that not only will any trouble you're in be taken care of, but
this airline will give you a ticket to New York, and back, first class."
Mrs. Quonsett was so touched, she almost cried.
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" For once she found it hard to speak. What a
remarkable man, she thought; such a kind, dear man!

Her genuine emotion as she was about to leave the flight deck helped Mrs.
Quonsett in her progress through the first class compartment and then
into the tourist cabin. With Gwen Meighen grasping her arm tightly and
shoving her along, the old lady dabbed at her eyes with her lace
handkerchief, giving a tearful, credible performance of acute distress.
She reminded herself, almost gleefully beneath her tears, that it was her
second performance tonight..The first, when she pretended to be ill, had
been staged in the terminal for the young passenger agent, Peter Coakley.
She had been convincing then, so why not now?
The performance was sufficiently authentic for one passenger to ask Gwen
heatedly, "Miss, whatever she's done, do you have to be so rough?"
Gwen replied tartly, already aware that she was

within hearing of the man Guerrero, "Sir, please don't interfere."
As they passed into the tourist cabin, Gwen closed the draw curtain in the
door-way separating the two passenger sections. That was part of Vernon's
plan. Looking back the way they had come, toward the front of the aircraft,
Gwen could see the flight deck door slightly ajar. Behind it, she knew,
Vernon was waiting, watching. As soon as the curtain between first class
and tourist was closed, Vernon would move aft and stand behind it, watching
through a chink which Gwen was careful to leave open. Then, when the proper
moment came, he would fling the curtain aside and rush through swiftly.
At the thought of what was going to happen within the next few
minutes-whatever the outcome-once more an icy fear, a sense of premonition,
came to Gwen. Once more she conquered it. Reminding herself of her
responsibilities to the crew, and to the other passengers-who were
oblivious of the drama being played out in their midst-she escorted Mrs.
Quonsett the remaining distance to her seat.
The passenger Guerrero glanced up quickly, then away. The small attach6
case, Gwen saw, was still in the same position on his knees, his hands
holding it. The man from the aisle seat next to Mrs. Quonsett's-the oboe
player-stood up as they approached. His expression sympathetic, he moved
out to let the old lady in. Unobtrusively, Gwen moved in front of him,
blocking his return. The aisle seat must remain unoccupied until Gwen moved
out of the way. Gwen's eyes caught a flicker of movement through the chink
she had left in the doorway curtain. Vernon Demerest was in position and
ready.
"Please!" Still standing in the aisle, Mrs. Ouonsett turned pleadingly,
tearfully to Gwen. "I beg of youask the captain to reconsider. I don't want
to be handed over to the Italian police . . ."
Gwen said harshly, "You should have thought of that before. Besides, I
don't tell the captain what to do."
"But you can ask him! He'll listen to you."

D. 0. Guerrero turned his head, took in the scene, then looked away.
Gwen seized the old lady's arm. "I'm telling you-get into that seat!"
Ada Quonsett's voice became a wail. "All I'm asking is to be taken back.
Hand me over there, not in a strange country!"
From behind Gwen the oboe player protested, "Miss, can't you see the
lady's upset?"
Gwen snapped, "Please keep out of this. This woman has no business here
at all. She's a stowaway."
The oboist said indignantly, "I don't care what she is. She's still an
old lady."
Ignoring him, Gwen gave Mrs. Quonsett a shove which sent her staggering.
"You heard me! Sit down and be quiet."
Ada Quonsett dropped into her seat. She screamed, "You hurt me! You hurt
me!"
Several passengers were on their feet, protesting.
D. 0. Guerrero continued to look straight ahead. His hands, Gwen saw,
were still on the attacb6 case.
Mrs. Quonsett wailed again.
Gwen said coldly, "You're hysterical." Deliberately, hating what she had
to do, she leaned into the section of seats and slapped Mrs. Quonsett
hard across the face. The slap resounded through the cabin. Passengers
gasped. Two other stewardesses appeared incredulous. The oboist seized
Gwen's arm; hastily she shook herself free.
What happened next occurred so swiftly that even those closest to the
scene were uncertain of the sequence of events.
Mrs. Quonsett, in her seat, turned to D. 0. Guerrero on her left. She
appealed to him, "Sir, please help mel Help me!"
His features rigid, he ignored her.
Apparently overcome by grief and fear, she reached toward him, flinging
her arms hystericafly around his neck. "Please, please!"
Guerrero twisted his body away, trying to release

himself. He failed. Instead, Ada Quonsett wound her arms around his neck
more tightly. "Oh, help me!"
Red-faced and close to choking, D. 0. Guerrero put up both hands to
wrench her away. As if in supplication, Ada Quonsett eased her grasp and
seized his hands.
At the same instant, Gwen Meighen leaned forward toward the inside seat.
She reached out and in a single even movement-almost without haste-she
grasped the attach6 case firmly and removed it from Guerrero's knees. A
moment later the case was free and in the aisle. Between Guerrero and the
case, Gwen and Ada Quonsett were a solid barrier.
The curtain across the doorway from the first class cabin swept open.
Vernon Demerest, tall and impressive in uniform, hurried through.
His face showing relief, he held out his hand for the attach6 case. "Nice
going, Gwen. Let me have it."
With ordinary luck the incident-except for dealing with Guerrero
later-would have ended there. That it did not was solely due to Marcus
Rathbone.
Rathbone, until that moment, was an unknown, unconsidered passenger,
occupying seat fourteen-D across the aisle. Although others were unaware
of him, he was a self-important, pompous man, constantly aware of
himself.
In the small Iowa town where he lived he was a minor merchant, known to
his neighbors as a "knocker." Whatever others in his community did or
proposed, Marcus Rathbone objected to. His objections, small and large,
were legendary. They included the choice of books in the local library,
a plan for a community antennae system, the needed disciplining of his
son at school, and the color of paint for a civic building. Shortly
before departing on his present trip he had organized the defeat of a
proposed sign ordinance which would have beautified his town's main
street. Despite his habitual "knocking," be had never been known to pro-
pose a constructive idea.
Another peculiarity was that Marcus Rathbone despised women, including
his own wife. None of his ob-

jections had ever been on their behalf. Consequently, the humiliation of
Mrs. Ouonsett a moment earlier had not disturbed him, but Gwen Meighen's
seizure of D. 0. Guerrero's attachd case did.
To Marcus Rathbone this was officialdom in uniform –and a woman at
thad-impinging on the rights of an ordinary traveler like himself.
Indignantly, Rathbone rose from his seat, interposing himself between
Gwen and Vernon Demerest.
At the same instant, D. 0. Guerrero, flushed and mouthing incoherent
words, scrambled free from his seat and the grasp of Ada Quonsett. As he
reached the aisle, Marcus Rathbone seized the case from Gwen and –with
a polite bow-held it out. Like a wild animal, with madness in his eyes,
Guerrero grabbed it.
Vernon Demerest flung himself forward, but too late. He tried to reach
Guerrero, but the narrowness of the aisle and the intervening
figures-Gwen, Rathbone, the oboe player-defeated him. D. 0. Guerrero had
ducked around the others and was heading for the aircraft's rear. Other
passengers, in seats, were scrambling to their feet. Demerest shouted
desperately, "Stop that man! He has a bomb!"
The shout produced screams, and an exodus from seats which had the effect
of blocking the aisle still further. Only Gwen Meighen, scrambling,
pushing, clawing her way aft, managed to stay close to Guerrero.
At the end of the cabin-like an animal still, but this time
comered-Guerrero turned. All that remained between him and the aircraft's
tail were three rear toilets; light indicators showed that two were
empty, one was occupied. His back to the toilets, Guerrero held the
attach6 case forward in front of him, one hand on its carrying handle,
the other on a loop of string now visible beneath the handle. In a
strained voice, somewhere between a whisper and a snarl, he warned, "Stay
where you are! Don't come closer!"
Above the heads of the others, Vernon Demerest shouted again. "Guerrero
' listen to me! Do you hear me? Listen!"
There was a second's silence in which no one moved,

the on1v sound the steady background whine of the plane's jet engines.
Guerrero blinked, continuing to face the others, his eyes –roving and
suspicious.
"We know who you are," Demerest called out, "and we know what you
intended. We know about the insurance and the bomb, and they know on the
ground, too, so it means your insurance is no good. Do you under-
stand?-your insurance is invalid, canceled, worthless. If you let off
that bomb you'll kill yourself for nothing. No one-least of all your
family-will gain. In fact, your family will lose because they'll be
blamed and hounded. Listen to me! Think."
A woman screamed. Still Guerrero hesitated.
Vernon Dernerest urged, "Guerrero, let these people sit down. Then, if
you like, we'll talk. You can ask me questions. I promise that until
you're ready, no one will come close." Dernerest was calculating: If
Guerrero's attention could be held long enough, the aisle might be
cleared. After that, Dernerest would try to persuade Guerrero to hand
over the case. If he refused, there was still a chance that Demerest
could leap forward, throw himself bodily onto Guerrero and wrest the case
free before the trigger could be used. It would be a tremendous risk, but
there was nothing better.
People were easing nervously back into their seats.
"Now that I've told you what we know, Guerrero; now you know that it
isn't any good going on, I'm asking you to give me that case." Dernerest
tried to keep his tone reasonable, sensing it was important to keep
talking. "If you do as I say, I give you my solemn word that no one in
this airplane will harm you."
D. 0. Guerrero's eyes mirrored fear. He moistened thin lips with his
tongue. Gwen Meighen was closest to him.
Dernerest said quietly, "Gwen, take it easy. Try to get in a seat," If
he had to leap, he wanted no one in the way.
Behind Guerrero the door of the occupied toflet opened. An owlish young
man with thick glasses came out. He stopped, peering short-siglitedly.
Obviously he had heard nothing of what was going on.

Another passenger yelled, "Grab the guy with the case! He's got a bomb!"
At the first "click" of the toilet door, Guerrero half turned. Now he
lunged, thrusting the man with glasses aside, and entered the toilet which
the newcomer had vacated.
As Guerrero moved, Gwen Meigben moved too, remaining close behind him.
Vernon Demerest, several yards away, was struggling fiercely aft, down the
still crowded aisle.
The toilet door was closing as Gwen reached it. She thrust a foot inside
and shoved. Her foot stopped the door from closing, but the door refused to
move. Despairing, as pain shot through her foot, she could feel Guerrero's
weight against the other side.
In D. 0. Guerrero's mind the last few minutes bad been a jumbled blur. He
had not fully comprehended everything that had occurred, nor had he heard
all that Demerest said. But one thing penetrated. He realized that like ~-
many of his other grand designs, this one, too, had failed. Somewhere-as
always happened with whatever he attempted-he had bungled. All his life had
been a failure. With bitterness, he knew his death would be a failure too.
His back was braced against the inside of the toilet door. He felt pressure
on it, and knew that at any moment the pressure would increase so that be
could no longer hold the door closed. Desperately be fumbled with the
attach6 case, reaching for the string beneath the handle which would
release the square of plastic, actuating the clothespin switch and
detonating the dynamite inside. Even as he found the string and tugged, he
wondered if the bomb be had made would be a failure also.
In his last split second of life and comprehension, D. 0. Guerrero learned
that it was not.

10

The explosion aboard Trans America Flight Two, The Golden Aryosy, was
instantaneous, monstrous, and overwhelming. In the airplane's confined
space it struck with the din of a hundred thunderclaps, a sheet of flame,
and a blow like a giant sledge hammer.
D. 0. Guerrero died instantly, his body, near the core of the explosion,
disintegrating utterly. One moment he existed; the next, there were only
a few small, bloody pieces of him left.
The aircraft fuselage blew open.
Gwen Meighen, who, next to Guerrero, was nearest the explosion, received
its force in her face and chest.
An instant after the dynamite charge ripped the aircraft skin, the cabin
decompressed. With a second roar and tornado force, air inside the
aircraft-until this moment maintained at normal pressure-swept through
the ruptured fuselage to dissipate in the high altitude near-vacuum
outside. Through the passenger cabins a dark engulfing cloud of dust
surged toward the rear. With it, like litter in a maelstrom, went every
loose object, light and heavy-papers, food trays, liquor bottles,
coffeepots, hand luggage, clothing, passengers' belongings-atl whirling
through the air as if impelled toward a cyclopean vacuum cleaner.
Curtains tore away. Internal doors-flight deck, storage, and toilets