Airport

rest,
Several passengers were struck. Others, not strapped in their seats,
clung to any handhold as the wind and suction drew them inexorably toward
the rear.
Throughout the aircraft, emergency compartments above each seat snapped
open. Yellow oxygen masks came tumbling down, each mask connected by a
short plastic tube to a central oxygen supply.
Abruptly the suction lessened. The aircraft's interior

was filled with mist and a savage, biting cold. Noise from engines and wind
was overwhelming.
Vernon Demerest, still in the aisle of the tourist cabin where he had held
himself by instinctively seizing a seatback, roared, "Get on oxygen!" He
grabbed a mask himself.
Through knowledge and training, Demerest realized what most others did not:
The air inside the cabin was now as rarefied as that outside, and
insufficient to support life. Only fifteen seconds of full consciousness
remained to everyone, unless oxygen was used at once from the aircraft's
emergency system.
Even in five seconds, without the aid of oxygen, a degree of lessened
judgment would occur.
In another five seconds a state of euphoria would make many decide not to
bother with oxygen at all. They would lapse into unconsciousness, not
caring.
Airlines had long been urged, by those who understood the hazards of
decompression, to make pre-flight announcements about oxygen equipment more
definite than they were. Passengers should be told, it was argued: The
instant an oxygen mask appears in front of you, grab it, stick your face
into it, and ask questions after. If there is a real decompression, you
haven't a single second to spare. If it's a false alarm, you can always
take the mask ojff later; meanwhile it will do no harm.
Pilots who took decompression tests were given a simple demonstration of
the effect of oxygen lack at high altitudes. In a decompression tank, with
an oxygen mask on, they were told to begin writing their signatures, and
part way through the exercise their masks were removed. The signatures
tailed off into a scrawl, or nothingness. Before unconsciousness occurred,
the masks were put back on.
The pilots found it hard to believe what they saw on the page before them.
Yet airtine managements, theorizing that more definite oxygen advice might
create alarm among passengers, persisted in the use of innocuous flight an-
nouncements only. Smiling stewardesses, seeming either

bored or amused, casually demonstrated the equipment while an unseen
voice-hurrying to get finished before takeoff-parroted phrases like: In
the unlikely event . . . and . . . Government regulations require that we
inform you. No mention was ever made of urgency, should the equipment be
required for use.
As a result, passengers became as indifferent to emergency oxygen
facilities as airlines and their staffs appeared to be. The overhead
boxes and monotonous, always-alike demonstrations were (passengers rea-
soned) something dreamed up by a bunch of regulation-obsessed civil
servants. (Yawn!) Obviously the whole thing was largely a charade,
insisted on by the same kind of people who collected income taxes and
disallowed expense accounts. So what the hell!
Occasionally, on regular flights, oxygen mask housings opened
accidentally, and masks dropped down in front of passengers. When this
happened, most passengers stared curiously at the masks but made no
attempt to put them on. Precisely that reaction-though the emergency was
real-had occurred aboard Flight Two.
Vernon Dernerest saw the reaction and in a flash of sudden anger
remembered his own, and other pilots', criticisms of soft-pedaled oxygen
announcements. But there was no time to shout another warning, nor even
to think of Gwen, who might be dead or dying only a few feet away.
Only one thing mattered: somehow to get back to the flight deck, and help
save the airplane if he could.
Breathing oxygen deeply, he planned his movement forward in the aircraft.
Above every seat section in the tourist cabin, four oxygen masks had
dropped-one for the occupant of each seat, plus a spare to be grabbed if
necessary by anyone standing in the aisle. It was one of the spares which
Demerest had seized and was using.
But to reach the flight deck he must abandon this mask and use a portable
one that would permit him to move forward freely.
He knew that two portable oxygen cylinders were stowed, farther forward,
in an overhead rack near the

first class cabin bulkhead. If be could make it to the portable cylinders,
either one would sustain him for the remaining distance from the bulkhead to
the flight deck.
He moved for-ward to the bulkhead one seat section at a time, using one
spare hanging mask after another as he went.
A couple of seat sections ahead, he could see that aff four masks were
being used by seated passengers; the three seat occupants, including a
teen-age girl, had one mask each; the fourth mask was being held by the
teenager over the face of an infant on its mother's lap alongside. The girl
seemed to have taken charge and was motioning to others near her what to
do. Demerest swung toward the opposite side of the cabin, saw a spare mask
hanging, and taking a deep breath of oxygen, he let go the one he had and
reached for the other spare. He made it, and breathed deeply once again. He
still had more than half the tourist cabin length to go.
He had made one more move when he felt the aircraft roll sharply to the
right, then dive steeply down.
Demerest hung on. He knew that, for the moment, there was nothing he could
do. What happened next was dependent on two things: how much damage the
explosion had done, and the skill of Anson Harris, at the flight controls,
alone.

On the flight deck, the events of the last few seconds had occurred with
even less warning than at the rear. After the departure of Gwen Meighen and
Mrs. Quonsett, followed by Vernon Demerest, the two remaining crew
members-Anson Harris and Second Officer Cy Jordan-had no knowledge of what
was going on in the passenger cabins behind them until the dynamite blast
rocked the aircraft, followed an instant later by explosive decompression.
As in the passenger compartments, the cockpit filled with a thick, dark
cloud of dust, almost immediately sucked out as the flight deck door
smashed free from its lock and hinges, and flew outward. Everything loose
on the flight deck was snatched up, to be carried back, joining the
debris-laden whirlwind.

Under the flight engineer's table, a warning born began blaring
intermittently. Over both front seats, bright yellow lights flashed on.
Both born and lights were signals of dangerously low pressure.
A fine mist-deathly cold-replaced the cloud of dust. Anson Harris felt
his eardrums tighten painfully.
But even before that, he had reacted instantly-the effect of training and
experience of many years.
On the long, uphill road to airline captaincy, pilots spent arduous hours
in classrooms and simulators, studying and practicing airborne
situations, both normal and emergency. The objective was to instill
quick, correct reactions at all times.
The simulators were located at important air bases and all major
scheduled airlines had them.
From outside, a simulator looked like the nose of an aircraft, with the
rest of the fuselage chopped off; inside, was everything included in a
normal flight deck.
Once inside a simulator, pilots remained shut up for hours, imitating the
precise conditions of a long distance flight. The effect, when the
outside door was closed, was uncanny; even motion and noise were present,
creating the physical effect of being airborne. All other conditions
paralleled reality. A screen beyond the for-ward windows could conjure
up airports and runways, enlarging or receding to simulate takeoff and
landing. The only difference between a simulator flight deck and a
genuine one was that the simulator never left the ground.
Pilots in a simulator conversed with a nearby control room, as they would
on radio in the air. Within the control room, skilled operators
duplicated air traffic control procedures and other flight conditions.
The operators could also feed in adverse situations, without warning, to
pilots. These ranged through multiple engine failure, to fire, violent
weather, electrical and fuel problems, explosive decompression,
instrument malfunction, and other assorted unpleasantness. Even a crash
could be reproduced; sometimes simulators were used in reverse to find
out what bad caused one.
Occasionally an operator would feed in several emergencies at once,
causing pilots to emerge later, ex-

hausted and sweat-drenched. Most pilots coped with such tests; the few who
didn't had the fact noted in their records, were re-examined, and
afterward watched carefully. The simulator sessions continued, several
times a year, through every stage of a pilot's career until retirement.
The result was: When a real emergency occurred, airline pilots knew
exactly what to do, and did it, without fumbling or loss of precious
time. It was one of many factors which made travel by scheduled airlines
the safest means of transportation in human history. It had also
conditioned Anson Harris to instant action, directed toward the salvation
of Flight Two.
In the drill for explosive decompression one rule was fundamental: the
crew took care of themselves first. Vernon Demerest observed the rule;
so did Anson Harris and Cy Jordan.
They must be on oxygen at once-even ahead of passengers. Then, with
full mental faculties assured, decisions could be made.
Behind each pilot's seat a quick-don oxygen maskresembling a baseball
catcher's mask-was hanging. As he had practiced countless times, Harris
ripped off his radio headset, then reached over his shoulder for the
mask. He tugged, so that a holding clip snapped open, and slapped the
mask on. As well as a connection to the airplane's oxygen supply, it
contained a microphone. For listening, now his headset was removed,
Harris changed a selector, actuating a speaker overhead.
Behind him, Cy Jordan, with identical swift movements, did the same.
In another reflex movement, Anson Harris took care of passengers. Cabin
oxygen systems worked automatically in event of pressure failure; but as
a precautionin case they didn't-over the pilots' heads was an override
switch. It ensured positive release of passenger masks and sent oxygen
flowing into them. Harris flipped the switch.
He dropped his right hand to the throttles, pulling all four off. Thz
aircraft slowed.
It must be slowed still more.
Left of the throttles was a speed brake handle. Harris

pulled it fully ;oward him. Along the top surface of both wings, spoilers
rose up, inducing drag, and causing further slowing.
Cy Jordan silenced the warning horn.
So far, all procedures had been automatic. Now, a moment for decision had
arrived.
It was essential that the aircraft seek a safer altitude below. From its
present height of twenty-eight thousand feet, it must descend some three
and a half miles to where the air was denser so that passengers and crew
could breathe and survive without supplemental oxygen.
The decision Harris had to make was-should the descent be slow, or a
high-speed dive?
Until the past year or two, the instruction to pilots in event of
explosive decompression was: dive immediately. Tragically, however, the
instruction had resulted in at least one aircraft breaking apart when a
slower descent might have saved it. Nowadays, pilots were cautioned:
Check for structural damage first. If the damage is bad, a dive may
worsen it, so go down slowly.
Yet that policy, too, had hazards. To Anson Harris, they were instantly
apparent.
Undoubtedly Flight Two bad sustained structural damage. The sudden
decompression proved it, and the explosion which bad occur-red just
before-though still less than a minute ago-might already have done great
harm. In other circumstances, Harr-is would have sent Cy Jordan to the
rear to learn how bad the damage was, but since Dernerest was gone,
Jordan must stay.
But however serious the structural damage, there was another factor,
perhaps more cogent. The air temperature outside the aircraft was minus
fifty degrees centigrade. Judging by the near-paralyzing cold which
Harris felt, the inside temperature must also be near that. In such
intense cold, no one without protective clothing could survive for more
than minutes.
So which was the lesser gamble-to freeze for sure, or take a cbance and
go down fast?
Making a decision which only later events could prove right or wrong,
Harris called on interphone to Cy Jordan, "Warn air traffic control!
We're diving!"
At the same moment, Harris banked the aircraft

steeply to the right and selected landing gear "down." Banking before the
dive would have two effects: Passengers or stewardesses who were not
strapped in seats, or who were standing, would be held where they were by
centrifugal force; whereas, a straight dive would throw them to the
ceiling. The turn would also head Flight Two away from the airway they had
been using, andhopefully-other traffic below.
Putting the landing gear down would further reduce forward speed, and
make the dive steeper.
On the overhead speaker, Harris could hear Cy Jordan's voice intoning a
distress call. "Mayday, mayday. This is Trans America Two. Explosive
decompression. We are diving, diving."
Harris pushed the control yoke hard for-ward. Over his shoulder he
shouted, "Ask for ten!"
Cy Jordan added, "Request ten thousand feet."
Anson Harris clicked a radar transponder switch to seventy-seven-a radar
S-O-S. Now, on all monitoring screens on the ground, a double blossom
signal would be seen, confirming both their distress and identity.
They were going down fast, the altimeter unwinding like a clock with a
wBd mainspring … Passing through twenty-six thousand feet . . .
twenty-four . . . twentythree … Climb and descent meter showed eight
thousand feet descent a minute . . . Toronto Air Route Center on the
overhead speaker: "All altitudes below you are clear. Report your
intentions when ready. We are standing by." . Harris had eased out of the
turn, was diving straig
,ht ahead … No time to think about the cold; if they could get
low enough fast enough, there might be survival-if the aircraft
held together . . . Already Harris was aware of trouble with
rudder control and elevators; rudder movement was stiff; stabi-
lizer trim, not responding … Twenty-one thousand feet . . .
twenty . . . nineteen . . . From the feel of the controls, the
explosion had done damage to the tail; how bad, they would
discover when he tried to pull out in a minute or less from now.
It would be the moment of greatest strain. If anything critical
gave way, they would continue plummeting in . . . Harris would
have been glad of some help from the right seat, but it was too
late

for Cy Jordan to move there. Besides, the second officer was needed where
he was-shutting air inlets, throwing in all the beat they had, watching
for fuel system damage or fire warnings … Eighteen thousand feet . . .
seventeen . . . When they reached fourteen thousand, Harris decided, he
would start pulling out of the dive, hoping to level at ten … Passing
through fifteen thousand … fourteen … Begin easing out now!
Controls were heavy, but responding . . . Harris pulled back hard on the
control yoke. The dive was flattening, control surfaces holding, the
aircraft coming out … Twelve thousand feet; descending more slowly now
… eleven thousand . . . ten, five … ten!
They were level! So far, everything had held together. Here, the normal
air was breathable and would sustain life, extra oxygen not necessary.
The outside air temperature gauge showed minus five centigrade-five
degrees below freezing; still cold, but not the killing cold of altitudes
above.
From beginning to end, the dive had taken two and a half minutes.
The overhead speakers came alive. "Trans America Two, this is Toronto
Center. How are you doing?"
Cy Jordan acknowledged. Anson Harris cut in. "Level at ten thousand,
returning to heading two seven zero. We have structural damage due to
explosion, extent unknown. Request weather and runway informationToronto,
Detroit Metropolitan, and Lincoln." In his mind, Harris had an instant
picture of airports large enough to accommodate the Boeing 707, and with
the special landing requirements he would need.
Vernon Demerest was clambering over the smashed flight deck door and
other debris outside. Hurrying in, he slid into his seat on the fight
side.
"We missed you," Harris said.
"Can we maintain control?"
Harris nodded. "If the tail doesn't fall off, we may stay lucky." He
reported the impcded rudder and stabilizer trim. "Somebody let off a
firecracker back there?"
"Something
, like that. It's made a bloody great hole. I didn't stop to
measure."
Their casualness, both men knew, was on the surface

only. Harris was still steadying the aircraft, seeking an even altitude and
course. He said considerately, "It was a good scheme, Vernon. It could have
worked."
"It could have, but it didn't." Demerest swung around to the second
officer. "Get back in tourist. Check on damage, report by interphone. Then
do all you can for the people. We'll need to know how many are hurt, and
how badly." For the first time he permitted himself an anguished thought.
"And find out about Gwen."
The airport reports, which Anson Harris had asked for, were coming in from
Toronto center: Toronto airport still closed; deep snow and drifts on all
runways. Detroit Metropolitan-all runways closed to regular traffic, but
plows will vacate runway three left if essential for emergency approach and
landing; runway has five to six inches level snow, with ice beneath.
Detroit visibility, six hundred feet in snow flurries. Lincoln In-
ternational-all runways plowed and serviceable; runway three zero
temporarily closed, due to obstruction. Lincoln visibility one mile; wind
northwest, thirty knots, and gusting.
Anson Harris told Demerest, "I don't intend to dump fuel."
Demerest, understanding Harris's reasoning, nodded agreement. Assuming they
could keep the airplane under control, any landing they made would be
tricky and heavy, due to the large fuel load which in other circumstances
would have carried them to Rome. Yet, in their present situation, to dump
unwanted fuel could be an even greater hazard. The explosion and damage at
the rear might have set up electrical short circuits, or metal friction,
which even now could be producing sparks. When dumping fuel in flight, a
single spark could turn an aircraft into a flaming holocaust. Both captains
rationalized: better to avoid the fire risk and accept the penalty of a
difficult landing.
Yet the same decision meant that a landing at Detroit –the nearest large
airport-could be attempted only in desperation. Because of their heavy
weight, they would have to land fast, requiring every available foot of

runway and the last ounce of braking power. Runway three left-Detroit
Metropolitan's longest, which they would need-had ice beneath snow, in the
circumstances the worst possible combination.
There was also the unknown factor-wherever Flight Two landed-of how
limited their control might be, due to rudder and stabilizer trim
problems, which they already knew about, though not their extent.
For a landing, Lincoln International offered the best chance of safety.
But Lincoln was at least an hour's flying time away. Their present
speed-two hundred and fifty knots-was far slower than they had been
moving at the higher altitude, and Anson Harris was holding the speed
down, in the hope of avoiding further structural damage. Unfortunately,
even that involved a penalty. At their present low level of ten thousand
feet there was considerable buffeting and turbulence from the storm, now
all around them instead of far below.
The crucial question was: Could they remain in the air another hour?
Despite everything that had happened, less than five minutes had passed
since the explosion and explosive decompression.
Air route control was asking again: "Trans America Two, advise your
intentions."
Vernon Dernerest replied, requesting a direct course for Detroit while
the extent of damage was still being checked. Landing intentions, either
at Detroit Metropolitan or elsewhere, would be notified within the next
few minutes.
"Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit has advised they are removing
snowplows from runway three left. Until informed otherwise, they will
prepare for an emergency landing."
The intercom bell chimed and Dernerest answered. It was Cy Jordan calling
from the rear, shouting to make himself heard above a roar of wind.
"Captain, there's a great hole back here, about six feet wide behind the
rear door. Most else around the galley and toilets is a shambles. But as
far as I can see, everything's holding to-

gether. The rudder power boost is blown to hell, but control cables look
okay."
"What about control surfaces? Can you see anything?"
"It looks like the skin is bulged into the stabilizer, which is why the
stabilizer's jammed. Apart from that, all I can see outside are some
holes and bad dents, I guess from debris blowing back. But nothing's
hanging loose-at least, that shows. Most of the blast, I'd say, went
sideways."
It was this effect which D. 0. Guerrero had not allowed for. He had
blundered and miscalculated from the beginning. He bungled the explosion,
too.
His greatest error was in failing to recognize that any explosion would
be drawn outward and would largely dissipate, the moment the hull of a
pressurized aircraft was pierced. Another error was in not realizing how
stoutly a modem jetliner was built. In a passenger jet, structural and
mechanical systems duplicated each other, so that no single malfunction
or damage should result in destruction of the whole. An airliner could
be destroyed by a bomb, but only if the bomb were detonated-either by
plan or chance-in some vulnerable location. Guerrero made no such plan.
Demerest queried Cy Jordan, "Can we stay in the air an hour?"
"My guess is, the airplane can. I'm not sure about the passengers."
"How many are hurt?"
"I can't say yet. I checked structural damage first, the way you said.
But things don't look good."
Dernerest ordered, "Stay there as long as you need to. Do what you can."
He hesitated, dreading what the answer to his next question might be,
then asked, "Have you seen any sign of Gwen?" He still didn't know
whether or not Gwen had been sucked out with the initial blast. In the
past it had happened to others, including stewardesses who were near the
site of an explosive decompression, unprotected. And even if that had not
happened, Gwen had still been closest to the detonated bomb.

Cy Jordan answered, "Gwen's here, but in pretty bad shape, I think. We've
got about three doctors, and they're working on her and the others. I'll
report when I can."
Vernon Demerest replaced the interphone. Despite his last question and
its answer, he was still denying himself the indulgence of private
thoughts or personal emotion; there would be time for those later.
Professional decisions, the safety of the air-plane and its complement,
came first. He repeated to Anson Harris the gist of the second officer's
report.
Harris considered, weighing all factors. Vernon Dernerest had still given
no indication of taking over direct command, and obviously approved of
Harris's decisions so far, else he would have said so. Now, Demerest ap-
peared to be leaving the decision about where to land to Harris also.
Captain Dernerest-even in utmost crisis-was bohaving exactly as a check
pilot should.
"We'll try for Lincoln," Harris said. The safety of the aircraft was
paramount; however bad conditions might be in the passenger cabin, they
would have to hope that most people could manage to hold on.
Demerest nodded acknowledgment and began notifying Toronto Center of the
decision; in a few minutes, Cleveland Center would take them over.
Demerest requested that Detroit Metropolitan still stand by in case of
a sudden change of plan, though it wasn't likely. Lincoln International
was to be alerted that Flight Two would require a straight-in emergency
approach.
"Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit and Lincoln are being advised." A
change of course followed. They were nearing the western shore of Lake
Huron, the U.S.Canadian border close.
On the ground, both pilots knew, Flight Two was now the center of
attention. Controllers and supervisors in contiguous air route centers
would be working intensely, coordinating removal of all traffic from the
aircraft's path, sectors ahead warned of their approach, and airways
cleared. Any request they made would be acted on with first priority.

As they crossed the border, Toronto Center signed off, adding to the
final exchange, "Goodnight and good luck."
Cleveland Air Route Center responded to their call a moment later.
Glancing back toward the passenger cabins, through the gap where the
flight deck door had been, Dernerest could see figures moving-though
indistinctly, because immediately after the door had gone, Cy Jordan had
dimmed the first class cabin lights to avoid reflection on the flight
deck. It appeared, though, as if passengers were being ushered for-ward,
indicating that someone in the rear had taken charge-presumably Cy
Jordan, who should be reporting again at any moment. The cold was still
biting, even on the flight deck; back there it must be colder still. Once
more, with a second's anguish, Demcrest thought of Gwen, then ruthlessly
cleared his mind, concentrating on what must be decided next.
Though only minutes had elapsed since the decision to risk another hour
in the air, the time to begin planning their approach and landing at
Lincoln International was now. As Harris continued flying, Vernon
Demerest selected approach and runway charts and spread them on his
knees.
Lincoln International was home base for both pilots, and they knew the
airport-as well as runways and surrounding airspace-intimately. Safety
and training, however, required that memory should be supplemented and
checked.
The charts confirmed what both already knew.
For the high speed, heavy weight landing they must execute, the longest
possible length of runway was required. Because of doubtful rudder
control, the runway should be the widest, too. It must also be directly
into wind which-the Lincoln forecast had said-was northwest at thirty
knots, and gusting. Runway three zero answered all requirements.
"We need three zero," Demerest said.
Harris pointed out, "That last report said a temporary closin',Y, due to
obstruction."
"I beard," Demerest growled. "The damn runway's

been blocked for hours, and all that's in the way is a stuck Mexican jet."
He folded a Lincoln approach chart and clipped it to his control yoke, then
exclaimed angrily, "Obstruction heU! We'U give 'ern fifty more minutes to
pry it loose."
As Demerest thumbed his mike button to inform air route control, Second
Officer Cy Jordan-white-faced and shaken-returned to the flight deck.

11

In the main terminal of Lincoln International, Lawyer Freemantle was
puzzled.
It was most peculiar, he thought, that no one in authority had yet objected
to the big, increasingly noisy demonstration of Meadowood residents who, at
this moment, were monopolizing a large segment of the central concourse.
Earlier this evening, when EUiott Freemantle had asked the Negro police
lieutenant for permission to hold a public censure meeting, he had been
firmly refused. Yet here they were, with a curious crowd of spectators –and
not a policeman in sight!
Freemantle thought again: it didn't make sense.
Yet what had happened was incredibly simple.
After the interview with the airport general manager, Bakersfeld, the
delegation, led by Elliott Freemantle, had returned from the administrative
mezzanine to the main concourse. There, the TV crews, whom Freemantle had
talked with on the way in, had set up their equipment.
The remaining Meadowood residents-already at least five hundred strong,
with more coming in-were gathering around the TV activity.
One of the television men told him, "We're ready if you are, Mr.
Freemantle."

Two TV stations were represented, both planning separate film interviews
for use tomorrow. With customary shrewdness, Freemantle had already
inquired which TV shows the film was destined for, so that he could
conduct himself accordingly. The first inter-view, he learned, was for
a prime-time, popular show which liked controversy, liveliness, and even
shock treatment. He was ready to supply all three.
The TV interviewer, a handsome young man with a Ronald ReaGan haircut,
asked, "Mr. Freemantle, why are you here?"
"Because this airport is a den of thieves."
"Will you explain that?"
"Certainly. The homeowners of Meadowood community are having thievery
practiced on them. Thievery of their peace, their right to privacy, of
their work-eamed rest, and of their sleep. Thievery of enjoyment of their
leisure; thievery of their mental and physical health, and of their
children's health and welfare. All these thinas –basic riohts under our
Constitution-are being shamelessly stolen, without recompense or
recognition, by the operators of Lincoln Air-port."
The interviewer opened his mouth to smile, showing two rows of faultless
teeth. "Counselor, those are fighting words."
"That's because my clients and I are in a fighting mood."
"Is that mood because of anything which has happened here tonight?"
"Yes, sir, We have seen demonstrated the callous indifference of this
airport's management to my clients' problems."
"Just what are your plans?"
"In the courts-if necessary the highest court-we shall now seek closure
of specific runways, even the entire airport during nighttime hours. In
Europe, where they're more civilized about these things, Paris airport,
for example, has a curfew. Failing that, we shall demand proper
compensation for cruelly wronged homeowners."

"I assume that what you're doing at this Moment means you're also seeking
public support."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you believe the public will support you?"
"If they don't, I invite them to spend twenty-four hours living in
Meadowood-providing their eardnnns and sanity will stand it."
"Surely, Counselor, airports have official programs of noise abatement."
"A sham, sir! A fake! A public lie! The general manager of this airport
confessed to me tonight that even the paltry, so-called noise abatement
measures are not being observed."
And so on.
Afterward, Elliott Freemantle wondered if he should have qualified the
statement about noise abatement procedures-as Bakersfeld had done-by
referring to exceptional conditions of tonight's storm. But serni-truth
or not, the way he had said it was stronger, and Freemantle doubted if
it would be challenged. Anyway, he bad given good performailces-in the
second interview as well as the first. Also during both filmings, the
cameras panned several times over the intent, expressive faces of the
assembled Meadowood residents. Elliott Freemantle hoped that when they
saw themselves on their home screens tomorrow, they would remember who
had been responsible for all the attention they were receiving.
The number of Meadowooders who had followed him to the airport-as if he
were their personal Pied Piper –astonished him. Attendance at the meeting
in the Sunday school hall at Meadowood had been roughly six hundred. In
view of the bad night and lateness of the hour, he had thought they would
be doing well if half that number made the farther trek to the airport;
but not only did most of the original crowd come; some must have
telephoned friends and neighbors who bad joined them. He had even had
requests for more copies of the printed forms retaining himself as legal
counsel, which he was happy to pass out. Some revised mental arithmetic
convinced him that his first hope of a fee

from Meadowood totaling twenty-five thousand doUars might well be exceeded.
After the Tv interviews, the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson-who had been
taking notes during the filming –inquired, "What comes next, Mr.
Freemantle? Do you intend to stage some kind of demonstration here?"
Freemantle shook his head. "Unfortunately the management of this airport
does not believe in free speech, and we have been denied the elementary
privilege of a public meeting. However"-he indicated the assembled
Meadowooders-"I do intend to report to these ladies and gentlemen."
"Isn't that the same thing as a public meeting?"
"No, it is not."
Just the same, Elliott Freemantle conceded to himself, it would be a fine
distinction, especially since he had every intention of turning what
followed into a public demonstration if he could. His objective was to get
started with an aggressive speech, which the airport police would dutifully
order him to stop. Freemantle had no intention of resisting, or of getting
arrested. Merely being halted by the police-if possible in fuU oratorical
flow-would establish him as a Meadowood martyr and, incidentally, create
one more color story for tomorrow's papers. (The morning papers, he
imagined, had already closed with the earlier reports about himself and
Meadowood; editors of the afternoon editions would be gniteful for a new
lead.)
Even more important, Meadowood homeowners would be further convinced that
they had hired a strong counsel and leader, well worth his fee-the first
installment checks for which, Lawyer Freemantle hoped, would start flooding
in right after tomorrow.
"We're all set to go," Floyd Zanetta, chairman of the earlier Meadowood
meeting, reported.
While Freemantle and the Tribune newsman had been speaking, several of the
Meadowood men had hastily assembled the portable p.a. system, brought from
the Sunday school hall. One of the men now handed Freemantle a hand
microphone. Using it, he began to address the crowd.

"My friends, we came here tonight in a mood of reason and with
constructive thoughts. We sought to communicate that mood and thoughts
to this airport's management, believing we bad a real and urgent problem,
worthy of careful consideration. On your behalf I attempted-in reasoned
but firm terms-to make that problem known. I hoped to report back to
you-at best, some promise of relief; at least, some sympathy and
understanding. I regret to tell you that your delegation received none.
Instead, we were accorded only hostility, abuse, and an uncaring, cynical
assurance that in future the airport's noise above and around your homes
is going to get worse."
There was a cry of outrage. Freemantle raised a hand. "Ask the others who
were with me. They will tell you." He pointed to the front of the crowd.
"Did this airport's general manager, or did he not, inform us that there
was worse to come?" At first a shade reluctantly, then more definitely,
those who had been in the delegation nodded.
Having skillfully misrepresented the honest frankness which Mel
Bakersfeld had shown the delegation, Elliott Freemantle continued, "I see
others, as well as my Meadowood friends and clients, who have stopped,
with curiosity, to discover what is going on. We welcome their interest.
Let me inform you He continued in his customary, haranguing style.
The crowd, sizable before, was now larger still, and continuing to grow.
Travelers on their way to departure gates were having trouble getting
through. Flight announcements were being drowned out by the noise. Among
the Meadowooders, several had raised hastily scrawled signs which read:
AIRLANES OR PEOPLE FIRST? … OUTLAW JETS FROM MEADOWOOD!
. . . NIX NOXIOUS NOISE . . . MEADOWOOD PAYS TAXES TOO… IMPEACH LINCOLN!
Whenever Freemantle paused, the shouts and general uproar grew louder.
A gray-haired man in a windbreaker yelled, "Let's give the airport a
taste of their own noise." His words produced a roar of approval.
Without question, Elliott Freemantle's "report" had

by now developed into a fufl-scale demonstration. At any moment, he
expected, the police would intervene.
What Lawyer Freemantle did not know was that wfifle the Tv sessions were
taking place and Meadowood residents assembling, the airport management's
concern about Trans America Flight Two was beginning. Shortly after, every
policeman in the terminal was concentrating on a search for Inez Guerrero,
and thus the Meadowood demonstration escaped attention.
Even after Inez was found, Police Lieutenant Ordway remained occupied with
the emergency session in Mel Bakersfeld's office.
As a result, after another fifteen minutes, Elliott Freemantle was becoming
worried. Impressive as the demonstration was, unless halted officially, it
would have little point. Where in God's name, he thought, were the airport
police, and why weren't they doing their job?
It was then that Lieutenant Ordway and Mel Bakersfeld came down together
from the administrative mezzanine.
Several minutes earlier the meeting in Mel's office had broken up. After
the interrogation of Inez Guerrero and dispatch of the second warning
message to Flight Two, there was nothing to be gained by retaining everyone
together. Tanya Livingston, with the Trans America D.T.M. and chief pilot,
returned anxiously to the airline's OffiCCS in the terminal, to await any
fresh news there. The others-with the exception of Inez Guerrero, who was
being held for questioning by downtown police detectives-returned to their
own bailiwicks. Tanya had promised to notify Customs Inspector Standish,
who was distressed and anxious about his niece aboard Flight Two,
immediately there was any new development.
Mel, not certain where he would keep his own vigil, left his office with
Ned Ordway.
Ordway saw the Meadowood demonstration first and caught sight of Elliott
Freemantle. "That damn lawyerl I told him there'd be no demonstrations
here." He hurried toward the concourse crowd. "I'll break this up fast."

Alongside, Mel cautioned, "He may be counting on you doing that-just so
he can be a hero."
As they came nearer, Ordway shouldering his way ahead throu,yh the crowd,
Elliott Freemantle proclaimed, "Despite assurances from the airport
management earlier this evening, heavy air traffic-deafening and
shattering as always-is still continuing at this late hour. Even now. .
."
"Never mind that," Ned Ordway cut in brusquely. "I already told you there
would be no demonstrations in this terminal."
"But, Lieutenant, I assure you this is not a demonstration." Freemantle
still held the microphone, so that his words carried clearly. "All that's
happened is that I granted a television inter-view after a meeting with
the airport management-I might say a highly unsatisfactory meeting-then
reported to these people . . ."
"Report some place else!" Ordway swung around, facing others nearest him.
"Now, let's break this up!"
There were hostile glances and angry mutterings among the crowd. As the
policeman turned back to Elliott Freemantle, photographers' flash bulbs
popped. TV floodlights, which had been turned off, went bright once more
as television cameras focused on the two. At last, Elliott Freemantle
thought, everything was going just the way he wanted.
On the fringe of the crowd, Mel Bakersfeld was talking with one of the
TV men and Tomlinson of the Tribune. The reporter was consulting his
notes and reading a passage back. As he listened, Mel's face suffused
with anger.
"Lieutenant," Elliott Freemantle was saying to Ned Ordway, "I have the
greatest respect for you and for your uniform. Just the same, I'd like
to point out that we did hold a meeting some place else tonight-at Mead-
owood-but because of noise from this airport, we couldn't bear
ourselves."
Ordway snapped back, "I'm not here for a debate, Mr. Freemantle. If you
don't do as I say, you'll be arrested. I'm ordering you to get this group
out of here."

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Suppose we won't go?"
Another voice urged, "Let's stay here! They can't arrest all of us."
"No!" Elliott Freemantle held up a hand self-righteously. "Please listen
to me! There will be no disorder; no disobedience. My friends and
clients-this police officer has ordered us to desist and leave. We will
comply with his order. We may consider it a grave restriction of free
speech" . . . there were responsive cheers and booing . . . "but let it
not be said that at any point we failed to respect the law." More
crisply, he added, "I shall have a statement for the press outside."
"One moment!" Mel Bakersfeld's voice cut sharply across the heads of
others. He thrust his way forward. "Freemantle, I'm interested to know
what will be in that press statement of yours. Will it be more
misrepresentation. Another dose of distorted law reports to delude people
who don't know any better? Or just plain, oldfashioned fabrication which
you're so expert at?"
Mel spoke loudly, his words carrying to those nearby. There was a buzz
of interested reaction. People who had begun drifting away, stopped.
Elliott Freemantle reacted automatically. "That's a malicious, libelous
statement!" An instant later, scenting danger, he shrugged. "However, I
shall let it pass."
"Why? If it is libelous, you should know how to handle it." Mel faced the
lawyer squarely. "Or perhaps you're afraid of it proving true."
"I'm afraid of nothing, Mr. Bakersfeld. The fact is, we've been told by
this policeman that the party's over. Now, if you'll excuse me. . . "
"I said it was over for you," Ned Ordway pointed out. "What Mr.
Bakersfeld does is something again. He has authority here." Ordway had
moved beside Mel; together they blocked the lawyer's way.
"If you were a real policeman," Freemantle objected, "you'd treat us both
equally."
Mel said unexpectedly, "I think he's right." Ordway glanced at him
curiously. "You should treat us both equally. And instead of closing this
meeting, I think you

should allow me the same privilege of talking to these people which Mr.
Freemantle just bad. That is, if you want to be a real policeman."
"I guess I want to be." The big Negro police lieutenant, towering above
the other two, was grinning. "I'm beginning to see it your way-and Mr.
Freemantle's."
Mel observed blandly to Elliott Freernantle, "You see, he's come around.
Now, since we're all here, we may as well clear up a few things." He held
out his hand. "Let me have that microphone."
Mel's anger of a minute or two ago was now less apparent. When the
Tribune reporter, Tomlinson, had read back from his notes the gist of
what Elliott Freemantle stated in his TV interviews and later, Met
reacted heatedly. Both Ton-Ainson and the TV producer asked Mel to
comment on what had been said. He assured them that he would.
"Oh no!" Freernantle shook his head decisively. The danger which he
scented a few moments earlier was suddenly close and real. Once before,
tonight, he had underestimated this man Bakersfeld; he had no intention
of repeating that mistake. Freemantle himself now had the assembled
Meadowood residents firmly under control; it was essential to his purpose
that they remain that way. All he wanted at this moment was for everyone
to disperse quickly.
He declared loftily, "More than enough has been said." Ignoring Mel, he
passed the microphone to one of the Meadowood men and indicated the p.a.
equipment. "Let's get all this apart and be on our way."
"I'll take that." Ned Ordway reached over and intercepted the microphone.
"And leave the rest where it is." He nodded to several other policemen
who had appeared on the fringes of the crowd. They moved in. While
Freemantle watched helplessly, Ordway handed the microphone to Mel.
"Thank you." Met faced the crowd of Meadowooders –many of their faces
hostile-and others who, passing through the terminal, had stopped to
listen. Though it was twenty minutes after midnight, and now Saturday
morning, the heavy traffic in the main concourse showed

no sign of lessening. Because of many delayed flights, pressures would
probably continue through the remainder of the night, merging with a
heightened weekend activity until schedules got back to normal. If one of
the Meadowood objectives was to create a nuisance effect, Mel thought, it
was succeeding. The extra thousand or so people were taxing available
space in the concourse, arriving and departing passengers having to fight
their way around like a flood tide encountering a sudden sandbank.
Obviously the situation must not continue for more than a few minutes.
"I'll be brief," Mel said. He spoke into the microphone, telling them who
and what he was.
"Earlier tonight I met a delegation representing all of you. I explained
some of the airport's problems; also that we understood and sympathized
with yours. I expected what I said to be passed along, if not exactly,
then at least in substance. Instead, I find that I have been
misrepresented and you have been deceived."
Elliott Freemantle emitted a roar of rage. "That's a fie!" His face was
flushed. For the first time tonight his impeccably styled hair was
disarrayed.
Lieutenant Ordway grasped the lawyer firmly by the arm. "Hush up, now!
You had your turn."
In front of Mel a broadcast microphone had joined the hand mike he was
using. The TV lights were on as he continued.
"Mr. Freemantle accuses me of lying. He's been strong in his use of words
tonight." Mel consulted a note in his hand. "I understand they include
'thievery,' 'indifference,' that I met your delegation with 'hostility
and abuse'; further, that the noise abatement measures we are trying to
enforce are a 'sham, a fake, and a public lie.' Well, we'll see what you
think about who's lying-or misrepresenting-and who is not."
He had made an error earlier, Mel realized, in speaking to the small
delegation and not to this main group. His objectives had been to achieve
understanding, yet avoid disruption in the terminal. Both objectives had
failed.
But at least he would aim for understanding now.

"Let me outline this airport's policy on noise suppression. "
For the second time tonight Mel described the operating limitations on
pilots and their employer airlines. He added, "At normal times these
restrictions are enforced. But in difficult weather, such as tonight's
storm, pilots must be given leeway, and aircraft safety must come first."
As to runways: "Wherever possible we avoid takeoffs over Meadowood from
runway two five." Yet, he explained, there was occasional need to use
that runway when runway three zero was out of commission, as at present.
"We do our best for you," Mel insisted, "and we are not indifferent, as
has been alleged. But we are in business as an airport and we cannot
escape our basic responsibilities, plus our concern for aviation safety."
The hostility among his audience was still apparent, but now there was
interest as well.
Elliott Freemantle-glaring at Mel and fuming-was aware of the interest
too.
"From what I've heard," Mel said, "Mr. Freemantle chose not to pass on
some observations I offered to your delegation on the general subject of
airport noise. My remarks were made"-he consulted his notes again,, not
in 'uncaring cynicism,' as has been suggested, but in an attempt at
honest frankness. I intend to share that frankness with you here."
Now, as earlier, Mel admitted there was little more in the area of noise
reduction which could be done; glum expressions appeared when he
described the expected greater noise from new aircraft soon to be in use.
But he sensed there was appreciation for objective honesty. Beyond a few
scattered remarks, there were no interruptions, his words remaining
audible above the background noises of the terminal.
"There are two other things which I did not mention to your delegation,
but now I intend to." Mel's voice hardened. "I doubt if you will like
them."
The first point, he informed them, concerned Meadowood community.

"Twelve years ago your community didn't exist. It was a parcel of empty
land-of low value until the airport's growth and closeness sent
surrounding values soaring. To that extent your Meadowood is like thou-
sands of communities which have mushroomed around airports everywhere in
the world."
A woman shouted, "When we came to live here, we didn't know about jet
noise."
"But we did!" Mel pointed a finger at the woman. "Airport managements
knew that jet airplanes were coming, and knew what jet noise would be
like, and we warned people, and local zoning commissions, and pleaded
with them in countless Meadowoods not to build homes. I wasn't at this
airport then, but there are records and pictures in our files. This
airport put up signs where Meadowood is now: AIRPLANES WILL TAKE OFF AND
LAND OVER THIS ROUTE. Other airports did the same. And everywhere the
signs appeared, real estate developers and salesmen tore them down. Then
they sold land and houses to people like you, keeping quiet about the
noise to come, and airport expansion plans-which usually they knew of-and
I guess in the end the real estate people outwitted us all."
This time there was no rejoinder, only a sea of thoughtful faces, and Mel
guessed that what he had said had struck home. He had a sense of keen
regret. These were not antagonists whom he wanted to defeat. They were
decent people with a real and pressing problem; neighbors for whom he
wished he could do more.
He caught sight of Elliott Freemantle's sneering features. "Bakersfeld,
I suppose you think that's pretty clever." The lawyer turned away,
shouting over nearer heads without benefit of amplifier. "Don't believe
all that! You're being softened up! If you stick with me, we'll take
these airport people, and we'll take them good!"
"In case any of you didn't hear," Mel said into the microphone, "that was
Mr. Freemantle advising you to stick with him. I have something to say
about that, too."
He told the now attentive crowd, "Many peoplepeople like you-have had
advantage taken of them by

being sold land or homes in areas which should not have been developed, or
should have been developed for industrial use where airport noise doesn't
matter. You haven't lost out entirely, because you have your land and homes;
but chances are, their values have decreased."
A man said gloomily, "Dam-n right!"
"Now there's another scheme afoot to part you from your money. Lawyers all
over North America are hotfooting it to airport dormitory communities
because 'thar's gold in that thar noise.' "
Lawyer Freemantle, his face flushed and distorted, shrilled, "You say one
more word-I'll sue you!"
"For what" Mel shot back. "Or have you guessed already what I'm going to
say?" Well, he thought, maybe Freemantle would launch a libel action later,
though he doubted it. Either way, Mel felt some of his old recklessness-a
decision for plain speaking, and never mind the consequences-take command.
It was a feeling which, in the past year or two, he had experienced rarely.
"Residents in the communities I spoke of," Mel argued, "are being assured
that airports can be suedsuccessfully. Homeowners near airports are being
promised there's a pot of dollars at every runway's end. Well, I'm not
saying airports can't be sued, nor am I saying there aren't some fine,
sound lawyers engaged in antiairport litigation. What I'm warning you is
that there are a good many of the other kind, too."
The same woman who had called out before askedmore mildly this time-"How
are we supposed to know which is which?"
"It's difficult without a program; in other words, unless you happen to
know some airport law. If you don't, you can be bamboozled by a one-sided
list of legal precedents." Mel hesitated only briefly before adding, "I've
heard a few specific law decisions mentioned tonight. If you wish, I'll
tell you another side to them."
A man at the front said, "Let's hear your version, mister."

Several people were looking curiously at Elliott Freemantle.
Mel had hesitated, realizing that this had already gone on longer than he
intended. He supposed, though, that a few minutes more would make no
difference.
On the fringes of the crowd he caught sight of Tanya Livingston.
"The legal cases which you and I have both heard referred to glibly," Mel
said, "are old hat to people who ran airports. The first, I think, was U.S.
v. Causby."
That particular case,-a pillar of Lawyer Freemantle's presentation to the
Meadowood group-was, Mel explained, a decision more than twenty years old.
"It concerned a chicken fanner and military airplanes. ne airplanes
repeatedly flew over the farmer's house, as low as sixty-seven feet-a whole
lot lower than any airplane ever comes near Meadowood. The chickens were
frightened; some died."
After years of litigation the case found its way to the U.S. Supreme Court.
Mel pointed out: "The total damages awarded were less than four hundred
dollars-the value of the dead chickens."
He added, "There was no pot of dollars for the farmer, nor is there-in that
legal precedent-for you."
Mel could see Elliott Freemantle, his face alternately crimson and white
with rage. Ned Ordway was once more holding the lawyer by the arm.
"There is one legal case," Mel observed, "which Mr. Freemantle has chosen
not to mention. It's an important one-also involving a Supreme Court
ruling-and well known. Unfortunately for Mr. Freemantle, it doesn't support
his arguments, but runs counter to them."
The case, he explained, was Batten v. Batten in which, in 1963, the Supreme
Court ruled that only an actual "physical invasion" created liability.
Noise alone was not enough.
Mel continued, "Another ruling, along the same lines, was Loma Portal Civic
Club v. American Airlines-a 1964 decision of the California Supreme Court."
In this, he reported, the Court ruled that property owners were not
entitled to restrict the flight of aircraft over houses

near an airport. Public interest in continuance of air travel, the
California court laid down, was paramount and overwhelming. . .
Mel had quoted the legal cases unhesitatingly, without reference to
notes. Clearly his audience was impressed. Now he smiled. "Legal
precedents are like statistics. If you manipulate them, you can prove
anything." He added, "You don't have to take my word for what I've told
you. Look it up. It's all on record."
A woman near Elliott Freemantle grumbled at him, "You didn't tell us all
that. You just gave your side."
Some of the hostility directed at Mel earlier was now being transferred
toward the lawyer.
Freemantle shrugged. After all, he decided, he still had more than a
hundred and sixty signed retainer forms, which he had been careful to
transfer to a locked bag in the trunk of his car. Nothing that was said
here could undo the fact of those.
A moment or two later he began to wonder.
Mel Bakersfeld was being asked by several people about legal contract
forms which they had signed this evening. Their voices betrayed doubt.
Obviously Mel's manner, as well as what he said, had made a strong
impression. The crowd was dividing into small groups, most in animated
discussion.
"I've been asked about a certain contract," Mel announced. Within the
crowd, other voices silenced as he added, "I think you know the contract
I mean. I have seen a copy of it."
Elliott Freemantle pushed forward. "So what! You aren't a lawyer; we've
settled that once before. Therefore you're no authority on contracts."
This time Freemantle was close enough to the microphone for his words to
carry.
Mel snapped back, "I live with contracts! Every lessee in this
airport-from the biggest airline to a headache pill
concessionaire-operates under a contract approved by me, and negotiated
by my staff."
He swung back to the crowd. "Mr. Freemantle points out, correctly, that
I am not a lawyer; so I'll give you a businessman's advice. In certain
circumstances the con-

tracts you signed tonight could be enforceable. A contract is a contract.
You could be taken to debtor's court; the money might be collected. But
my opinion is that, providing you serve proper notice immediately, neither
thing will happen. For one thing, you have received no goods; no service
has been rendered. For another, each of you would have to be sued
separately." Mel smiled. "That, in itself, would be an undertaking.
"One more thing." He looked directly at Elliott Freemantle. "I do not
believe that any court would look favorably on a total legal fee in the
region of fifteen thousand dollars for legal service which, at best, was
nebulous."
The man who had spoken earlier asked, "So what do we do?"
"If you've genuinely changed your mind, I suggest that today or tomorrow
you write a letter. Address it to Mr. Freemantle. In it, state that you
no longer want legal representation as arranged, and why. Be sure to keep
a copy. Again, in my opinion-that's the last you'll ever hear."
Mel had been blunter than he at first intended, and he bad also been
excessively reckless, he supposed, in going quite this far. If Elliott
Freernantle chose, he could certainly make trouble. In a matter in which
the airport-and therefore Mel-had active interest, Mel had interposed
between clients and lawyer, casting doubt upon the latter's probity.
Judging by the hatred in the lawyer's eyes, he would be delighted to do
any harm to Mel he could. Yet instinct told Mel that the last thing
Freemantle wanted was a searching public scrutiny of his client
recruiting methods and working babits. A trial judge, sensitive about
legal ethics, might ask awkward questions, later still, so might the Bar
Association, which safeguarded the legal profession's standards. The more
Mel thought about it, the less inclined he was to worry.
Though Mel didn't know it, Elliott Freemantle had reached the same
conclusion.
Whatever else Freemantle might be, he was a pragmatist. He had long ago
recognized that in life there were-

gambits which you won, others that you lost. Sometimes the loss was sudden
and illogical. A chance, a quirk, a nettle in the grass, could turn an
almost-grasped success into mortifying defeat. Fortunately for people like
Freemantle, the reverse was sometimes true.
The airport manager, Bakersfeld, had proven to be a nettle-carelessly
grasped-which should have been avoided. Even after their first brush, which
Elliott Freemantle now realized could have been a warning to him, he had
continued to underestimate his opponent by remaining at the airport instead
of quitting while ahead. Another thing Freemantle had discovered too late
was that Bakersfeld, while shrewd, was a gambler too. Only a gambler would
have gone out on such a limb as Bakersfeld bad a moment ago. And only
Elliott Freemantle –at this point-knew that Bakersfeld had won.
Freemantle was aware that the Bar Association might regard this night's
activity unfavorably. More to the point: He had had a brush with an
association investigating committee once already, and had no intention of
provoking another.
Bakersfeld had been right, Elliott Freemantle thought. There would be no
attempted debt collecting, through the courts, on the basis of the signed
legal retainer forms. The hazards were too great, the spoils uncertain.
He would not give up entirely, of course. Tomorrow, Freemantle decided, he
would draft a letter to all Meadowood residents who had signed the forms;
in it he would do his best to persuade them that retention of himself as
legal counsel, at the individual fee specified, should continue. He
doubted, though, if many would respond. The suspicion which Bakersfeld had
effectively implanted-damn his guts!-was too great. There might be some
small pickings left, from a few people who would be willing to continue,
and later it would be necessary to decide if they were worth while. But the
prospect of a big killing was gone.
Something else, though, he supposed, would turn up soon. It always had.
Ned Ordway and several other policemen were now

dispersing the crowd; normal traffic through the concourse was resuming. The
portable p.a. system was at last being disassembled and removed.
Mel Bakersfeld noticed that Tanya, whom he had caught sight of a moment or
two ago, was making her way in his direction.
A woman-one of the Meadowood residents whom Mel had noticed several times
before-confronted him. She had a strong intelligent face and
shoulder-length brown hair.
"Mr. Bakersfeld," the woman said quietly. "We've all talked a lot, and we
understand a few things better than we did. But I still haven't heard
anything that I can tell my children when they cry, and ask why the noise
won't stop so they can sleep."
Mel shook his head regretfully. In a few words the woman bad pointed up the
futility of everything which had happened tonight. He knew he bad no answer
for her. He doubted-while airports and dwellings remained in proximity-if
there would ever be one.
He was still wondering what to say when Tanya handed him a folded sheet of
paper.
Opening it, he read the message wl-Ach showed signs of being hastily typed:

flight 2 had mid-air explosion. structural damage & injuries. now
heading here 4 emergency landing, est. arrival 0130. capt. says must
have runway three zero. tower reports runway still blocked.

12

In the bloody shambles which was the rear of the tourist cabin of Flight
Two, Dr. Milton Compagno, general

practitioner, was exerting the utmost of his professional skill in an
attempt to save Gwen Meighen's life. He was not sure he would succeed.
When the initial explosion from D. 0. Guerrero's dynamite bomb occurred,
Gwen-next to Guerrero himself-was closest to the explosion's center.
In other circumstances she would have been killed instantly, as was D. 0.
Guerrero. Two things-for the moment-saved her.
Interposed between Gwen and the explosion were Guerrero's body and the
aircraft toilet door. Neither was an effective shield, yet the two together
were sufficient to delay the blast's initial force the fraction of a
second.
Within that fractional time the airplane's skin ripped, and the second
explosion-explosive decompressionoccurred.
The dynamite blast still struck Gwen, hurling her backward, gravely injured
and bleeding, but its force now had an opposing force-the outward rush of
air through the bole in the fuselage at the aircraft's rear. The effect was
as if two tornadoes met head on. An instant later the decompression
triumphed, sweeping the original explosion out with it into the
high-altitude, darkened night.
Despite the forcefulness of the explosion, injuries were not widespread.
Gwen Meighen, the most critically hurt, lay unconscious in the aisle. Next
to her, the owlish young man who had emerged from the toilet and startled
Guerrero, was wounded, bleeding badly, and dazed, but still on his feet and
conscious. A half dozen passengers nearby sustained cuts and contusions
from splinters and bomb fragments. Others were struck, and stunned or
bruised by hurtling objects impelled toward the aircraft's rear by the
explosive decompression, but none of the latter injuries was major.
At first, after decompression, all who were not secure in seats were
impelled by suction toward the gaping hole in the aircraft's rear. From
this danger, too, Gwen Meighen was in gravest peril. But she had fallen so
that an arm instinctively or accidentally-encircled a seat

base. It prevented her from being dragged farther, and her body blocked
others.
After the initial outrush of air, the suction lessened.
Now, thc greatest immediate danger for all-injured or not-was lack of
oxygen.
Although oxygen masks dropped promptly from their housings, only a handful
of passengers had grasped and put them on at once.
Before it was too late, however, a few people had acted. Stewardesses,
responding to their training, and wherever they happened to be, seized
masks and motioned others to do likewise. Three doctors, traveling with
their wives as members of an off-season vacation tour, realized the need
for speed, donned masks themselves and gave hasty instructions to those
around them. Judy, the alert, eighteen-year-old niece of Customs Inspector
Standish, placed a mask over the face of the baby in the seat beside her,
as well as over her own. She then immediately signaled the baby's parents,
and others across the aisle, to use oxygen. Mrs. Quonsett, the old lady
stowaway, having observed oxygen demonstrations many times during her
illegal flights, knew what to do. She took a mask herself and handed one to
her friend, the oboe player, whom she pulled back into his seat beside her.
Mrs. Quonsett had no idea if she was going to live or die, and found
herself not greatly worried; but whatever happened, she intended to know
what was going on until the very last moment.
Someone thrust a mask at the young man near Gwen who had been wounded.
Though swaying, and scarcely aware of what was happening, he managed to
hold it to his face.
Even so, barely half the passengers were on oxygen at the end of fifteen
seconds-the critical time. By then, those not breathing oxygen were lapsing
into drowsy stupor; in another fifteen seconds, most were unconscious.
Gwen Meighen received no oxygen, nor immediate help. The unconsciousness,
caused by her injuries, deepened.
Then, on the flight deck, Anson Harris, accepting the

risk of further structural damage and possible total destruction of the
aircraft, made his decision for a high speed dive, saving Gwen and others
from asphyxiation.
The dive began at twenty-eight thousand feet altitude; it ended, two and
a half minutes later, at ten thousand feet.
A human being can survive without oxygen for three to four minutes
without damage to the brain.
For the first half of the dive-for a minute and a quarter, down to
nineteen thousand feet-the air continued to be rarefied, and insufficient
to support life. Below that point, increasing amounts of oxygen were
present and breathable.
At twelve thousand feet regular breathing was possible. By ten-with
little time to spare, but enoughconsciousness returned to all aboard
Flight Two who had lost it, excepting Gwen. Many were unaware of having
been unconscious at all.
Gradually, as initial shock wore off, passengers and the remaining
stewardesses took stock of their situation. The stewardess who was second
in seniority after Gwen –a pert blonde from Oak Lawn, Illinois-hurried
toward the injured at the rear. Though her face paled, she called
urgently, "Is there a doctor, please?"
"Yes, miss." Dr. Compagno bad already moved from his seat without waiting
to be called. A small, sharp-featured man who moved impatiently and
talked quickly with a Brooklyn accent, he surveyed the scene hurriedly,
conscious of the already biting cold, the wind streaming noisily through
the gaping hole in the fuselage. Where the toilets and rear galley had
been was a twisted mess of charred and bloodstained wood and metal. The
back of the fuselage to the interior of the tail was open, with control
wires and structural assemblies exposed.
The doctor raised his voice to make himself heard above the noise of wind
and engines, constant and encompassing now that the cabin was no longer
sealed.
"I suggest you move as many people as you can nearer the front. Keep
everyone as warm as possible. We'll need blankets for those who are
hurt."
The stewardess said doubtfully, "I'll try to find

some." Many of the blankets normally stored in overhead racks had been swept
out, along with passengers' extra clothing and other objects, in the
whirlwind of decompression.
The two other doctors from Dr. Compagno's tour party joined him. One
instructed another stewardess, "Bring us all the first aid equipment you
have." Compagno-already on his knees beside Gwen-was the only one of the
three with a medical bag.
Carrying a bag with emergency supplies wherever he went was characteristic
of Milton Compagno. So was taking charge now, even though-as a G.P.-he was
outranked professionally by the other two doctors who were internists.
Milton Compagno never considered himself off duty. Thirty-five years ago,
as a young man who had fought an upward battle from a New York slum, he
hung out a shingle in Chicago's Little Italy, near MHwaukee and Grand
Avenues. Since then-as his wife told it, usually with resignation-the only
time he ceased practicing medicine was while he slept. He enjoyed being
needed. He acted as if his profession were a prize he had won, which, if
not guarded, would slip away. He had never been known to refuse to see a
patient at any hour, or to fail to make a house call if sent for. He never
drove past an accident scene as did many of his medical brethren, fearing
malpractice suits; he always stopped, got out of his car, and did what be
could. He kept conscientiously up to date. Yet the more he worked, the more
he seemed to thrive. He gave the impression of running through each day as
if he planned to assuage the world's ailments in a lifetime, of which too
little was left.
The journey to Rome-many years postponed-was to visit the birthplace of his
parents. With his wife, Dr. Compagno was to be away a month, and because he
was growing old, he had agreed that the time should be a total rest. Yet he
fully anticipated that somewhere en route, or perhaps in Italy (never mind
regulations about not being licensed) he would be needed. If so, he was
ready. It did not surprise him that he was needed now.
He moved first to Gwen who was clearly most critical

among those hurt. He told his colleagues, over his shoulder, "You attend to
the others."
In the narrow aisle, Dr. Compagno turned Gwen over partially, leaning
forward to detect if she was breathing. She was, but her breath was light
and shallow. He called to the stewardess he had been speaking to, "I need
oxygen down here." While the girl brought a portable bottle and mask, he
checked Gwen's mouth for an unobstructed airway; there were smashed teeth,
which he removed, and a good deal of blood; he made sure the bleeding was
not preventing respiration. He told the stewardess, "Hold the mask in
place." The oxygen hissed. Within a minute or two a vestige of color re-
turned to Gwen's skin, which had been ominously white.
Meanwhile, he began to control bleeding, extensive around the face and
chest. Working quickly, he used a hemostat to clamp off a facial
artery-worst site of external hemorrhage-and pressure dressings elsewhere.
He had already detected a probable fracture of the clavicle and left arm,
which would need to be splinted later. He was distressed to see what
appeared to be splinters from the explosion in the patient's left eye; he
was less sure about the right.
Second Officer Jordan, having moved carefully around Dr. Compagno and Gwen,
took charge of the remaining stewardesses and was supervising the movement
of passengers forward in the aircraft. As many tourist passengers as
possible were being moved into the first class section, some squeezed in,
two to a seat, others directed to the small, semicircular first class
lounge, where spare seats were available. Such extra clothing as remained
was distributed among those who appeared to need it most, without regard to
ownership. As always, in such situations, people showed a willingness to
help one another, unselfishness, and even flashes of humor.
The other two doctors were bandaging passengers who had received cuts, none
excessively serious. The young man with glasses, who was behind Gwen at the
moment of the explosion, bad a deep gash in one arm, but it could be
repaired and would heal. He had other

minor cuts about the face and shoulders. For the time being, pressure
dressings were applied to his injured arm, and he was given morphine,
while being made as comfortable and warm as possible.
Both the medical attention and movement of passengers was being made more
difficult by heavy buffeting which the aircraft, at its present low
altitude, was taking from the storm. There was constant turbulence, punc-
tuated every few minutes by violent pitching or sideways movements.
Several passengers were finding airsickness added to their other
troubles.
After reporting to the flight deck for the second time, Cy Jordan
returned to Dr. Compagno.
"Doctor, Captain Dernerest asked me to say he's grateful for everything
you and the other doctors are doing. When you can spare a moment, he'd
appreciate it if you'd come to the flight deck to teU him what to radio
ahead about casualties."
"Hold this dressing," Dr. Compagno ordered. "Press down hard, right
there. Now I want you to help me with a splint. We'll use one of those
leather magazine covers, with a towel under it. Get the biggest cover you
can find, and leave the magazine in."
A moment later: "I'll come when I can. You can say to your captain that
I think, as soon as possible, he should make an announcement to the
passengers. People qre getting over their shock. They could use some
reassurance."
"Yes, sir." Cy Jordan looked down at the still unconscious figure of
Gwen, his normally mournful, hollowchecked face accentuated by concern.
"Is there a chance for her, Doc?"
"There's a chance, son, though I wouldn't say it was the best. A lot
depends on her own strength."
"I always figured she had a lot of that."
"A pretty girl, wasn't she?" Amid the tom flesh, blood, and dirty,
tousled hair, it was difficult to be sure.
"Very."
CompaQno remained silent. Whatever happened, the girl on the floor would
not be pretty any more-not without plastic surgery.

"I'll give the captain your message, sir." Looking a little sicker than
before, Cy Jordan went forward to the flight deck.
Vernon Demerest's voice came calmly on the cabin p.a. system a few
moments later.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Demerest . .
To overcome the roar of wind and engines, Cy Jordan had turned the volume
control to "full." Each word rang clearly.
"You know we've had trouble-bad trouble. I won't attempt to minimize it.
I won't make any jokes either, because up here on the flight deck we
don't see anything that's funny, and I imagine you feel the same way.
We've all come through an experience which none of us in the crew has
ever had before, and I hope will never have again. But we have come
through. Now, we have the airplane under control, we're turned around,
and expect to land at Lincoln International in about three quarters of
an hour."
In the two passenger cabins, where first and tourist class now mingled
without distinction, movement and conversation stopped. Eyes
instinctively went to the overhead speakers as everyone within hearing
strained to miss nothing of what was said.
"You know, of course, that the airplane is damaged. But it's also true
that the damage could have been a whole lot worse."
On the flight deck, with the p.a. mike in hand, Vernon Demerest wondered
how specific-and how honest-he should be. On his own regular flights he
always kept captain-to-passengers announcements to the barest terse
minimum. He disapproved of "long-playing captains" who bombarded their
captive audience with assorted commentaries from a flight's beginning to
its end. He sensed, though, that this time he should say more, and that
passengers were entitled to be told the true situation.
"I won't conceal from you," Demerest said into the microphone, "that we
have a few problems still ahead of us. Our landing will be heavy, and
we're not sure how the damage we've suffered will affect it. I'm telling
you

this because right after this announcement the crew will start giving
instructions on how to sit, and how to brace yourselves, just before. we
land. Another thing you'll be told is how to get out of the airplane in
a hurry, if we need to, right after landing. If that should happen, please
act caln-dy but quickly, and obey instructions given you by any member of
the crew.
"Let me assure you that on the ground everything necessary is being done
to help us." Remembering their need for runway three zero, Demerest hoped
it was true. He also decided there was no point in going into detail
about the problem of the jammed stabilizer; most passengers wouldn't
understand it anyway. With a touch of lightness in his voice, he added,
"In one way you're lucky tonight because instead of one experienced
captain on the flight deck, it just so happens you have two-Captain
Harris and myself. We're a couple of ancient pelicans with more years of
flying than we sometimes like to think about-except right now when all
that combined experience comes in mighty useful. We'll be helping each
other, along with Second Officer Jordan. who'll also be spending part of
his time back with you. Please help us too. If you do, I promise you
we'll come through this together-saf ely."
Dernerest replaced the p.a. mike.
Without taking his eyes from the flight instruments, Anson Harris
remarked, "That was pretty good. You should be in politics."
Demerest said sourly, "Nobody'd vote for me. Most times, people don't
like plain talking and the truth." He was remembering bitterly the Board
of Airport Commissioners meeting at Lincoln International where he urged
curtailment of airport insurance vending. Plain speech there had proved
disastrous. He wondered how the members of the Board, including his
smooth, smug brother-in-law, would feet after learning about D. 0.
Guerrero's purchase of insurance and his maniacal intention to destroy
Flight Two. Probably, Dernerest thought, they would be complacent as
ever, except that now instead of saying It will never happen, they would
say, What occurred was exceptional; the odds are

against it happening again. Well, assuming Flight Two made it back safely,
and whatever was said or wasn't, sure as hell he was going to create
another big fight about airport insurance vending. The difference was:
this time more people would listen. Tonight's near disaster, however it
turned out, was certain to attract a lot of press attention; he would make
the most of it. He would talk bluntly to reporters about flight insurance,
about the Lincoln airport commissioners, and not least about his precious
brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld. Trans America's public relations flacks
would do their damnedest, of course, to keep him incommunicado "in the
interests of company policy." Just let them try!
The radio crackled alive. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center.
Lincoln advises runway three zero still temporarily out of use. They are
attempting to clear obstruction before you arrive. Failing that, will
land you on two five."
Harris's face went grim as Demerest acknowledged. Runway two five was two
thousand feet shorter, as well as narrower, and at the moment with a bad
crosswind. Using it would compound the hazards they already faced.
Demerest's expression clearly reflected his reaction to the message.
They were still being thrown about severely by the storm. Most of
Harris's time was occupied by holding the aircraft reasonably steady.
Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Cy, go back with the
passengers again, and take charge. See that the girls demonstrate the
landing drill, and that everybody understands it. Then pick some key
people who look reliable. Make sure they know where emergency exits are
and how to use them. If we run out of runway, which'11 be for sure if we
use two five, everything may come apart in a hurry. If that happens we'll
all try to make it back there and help, but there may not be time."
"Yes, sir." Once more, Jordan eased out of his flight engineer's seat.
Demerest, still anxious for news of Gwen, would have

preferred to go himself, but at this stage neither he nor Harris could
leave the flight deck.
As Cy Jordan left, Dr. Compagno arrived. It was now easier to move into
and from the flight deck, since Jordan had moved the smashed entrance
door to one side.
Milton Compagno introduced himself briskly to Vernon Demerest. "Captain,
I have the report of injuries you asked for."
"We're grateful to you, Doctor. If you hadn't been here . . ."
Compagno waved a hand in dismissal. "Let's do all that later." lie opened
a leather-covered notebook where a slim gold pencil marked a page. It was
characteristic that he had already obtained names, and recorded injuries
and treatment. "Your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is the most badly hurt.
She has multiple lacerations of the face and chest, with considerable
bleeding. There is a compound fracture of the left arm and, of course,
shock. Also, please notify whoever is making arrangements on the ground
that an ophthalmic surgeon should be available immediately."
Vernon Demerest, his face paler than usual, had been steeling himself to
copy the doctor's information onto the flight log clipboard. Now, with
sudden shock, he stopped.
"An ophthalmic surgeon! You mean … her eyes?"
"I'm afraid so," Dr. Compagno said gravely. He corrected himsetf. "At
least, her left eye has splinters, whether wood or metal I've no means
of knowing. It will require a specialist to decide if the retina is
affected. The right eye, as far as I can tell, is unharmed."
"Oh, God!" Feeling physically sick, Dernerest put a hand to his face.
Dr. Compagno shook his head. "It's too early to draw conclusions. Modem
ophthalmic surgery can do extraordinary things. But time will be
important."
"We'll send all you've told us on company radio," Anson Harris assured
him. "They'll have time to be ready."

"Then I'd better give you the rest."
Mechanically, Dernerest wrote down the remainder of the doctor's report.
Compared with Gwen's injuries, those of other passengers were slight.
"I'd better get back," Dr. Compagno said. "To see if there's any change."
Dernerest saij abruptly, "Don't go."
The doctor stopped, his expression curious.
"Gwen . . . that is, Miss Meighen . . ." Demerest's voice sounded strained
and awkward, even to himself. "She was . . . is . . . pregnant. Does it
make any difference?"
He saw Anson Harris glance sideways in startled surprise.
The doctor answered, a shade defensively, "I had no means of knowing. The
pregnancy can't be very far advanced."
"No," Demerest avoided the other man's eyes. "It isn't." A few minutes
earlier he had resolved not to ask the question. Then he decided that he
had to know.
Mflton Compagno considered. "It will make no difference to her own ability
to recover, of course. As to the child, the mother was not deprived of
oxygen long enough to do harni … no one was. She has no abdominal
injuries." He stopped, then went on fussily, "So there should be no effect.
Providing Miss Meighen survives-and with prompt hospital treatment her
chances are fair to good-the baby should be born normally."
Dernerest nodded without speaking. Dr. Compagno, after a moment's
hesitation, left.
Briefly, between the two captains, there was a silence. Anson Harris broke
it. "Vernon, I'd like to rest before I make the landing. Will you fly for
a while?"
Dernerest nodded, his hands and feet moving automatically to the controls.
He was grateful for the absence of questioning or comment about Gwen. What-
ever Harris was thinking or wondering, he had the decency to keep it to
himself.
Harris reached for the clipboard containing Dr. Compagno's information.
"I'll send that." He switched radio receivers to call Trans America
dispatch.

For Vernon Dernerest the act of flying was a physical relief after the
shock and emotion of what he had just heard. Possibly Harris had
considered that, possibly not. Either way, it made sense that whoever was
in command for the landing should conserve his energies.
As to the landing, hazardous as it was going to be, Anson Harris
obviously assumed he would make it. Demerest-on the basis of Harris's
performance so farsaw no reason why he should not.
Harris completed his radio call, then eased his seat rearward and allowed
his body to rest.
Beside him, Vernon Dernerest tried to concentrate solely on flying. He
did not succeed. To a pilot of experience and skill, total concentration
during level flight –even in difficult circumstances, as now-was neither
usual nor necessary. Though he tried to banish or postpone them, thoughts
of Gwen persisted.
Gwen … whose chance of remaining alive was "fair to good," who tonight
had been bright and beautiful and full of promise, would never go to
Naples now, as they had planned . . . Gwen, who an hour or two ago had
told him in her clear, sweet English voice, I happen to love you . . .
Gwen, whom he loved in return, despite himself, and why not face it?
With grief and anguish he visualized her-injured, unconscious, and
carrying his child; the child he urged her to dispose of like an unwanted
litter . . . She had replied with spirit, I was wondering when you'd get
around to it . . . Later she bad been troubled. It's a gift . . . that's
great and wonderful. Then suddenly, in our kind of situation you're faced
with ending it all, of squandering what was given.
But eventually, after his persuading, she conceded, Well, I suppose in
the end I'll do what's sensible. I'll have an abortion.
There would be no abortion now, In the kind of hospital Gwen was going
to, it would not be permitted unless as a direct choice between saving
the mother or the unborn child. From what Dr. Compagno had said, there
seemed no likelihood of that; and afterward it would be too late.

So if Gwen came through, the baby would be born. Was he relieved or
sorry? Vernon Demerest wasn't sure.
He remembered something else, though, that Gwen had said. The digerence
between you and me is that you've had a child … whatever happens
there's always someone, somewhere that's you again.
She had been speaking of the child whom he had never known, even by name;
the girl child, born in the limbo of the Trans America 3-PPP
arrangements, who had disappeared from sight immediately and forever.
Tonight, under questioning, he admitted that sometimes he wondered about
her. What he had not admitted was that he wondered, and remembered, more
often than he cared to.
His unknown daughter was eleven years old; Dem
crest knew her birthday, though he tried not to re
member it, but always did, wishing the same thing each
year: that there was something he could do – even a
simple thing like sending a greeting . . . He supposed it
was because he and Sarah had never had a child
(though both had wanted children) whose birthday he
could share . . . At other times he asked himself ques
tions to which he knew there could be no answers:
Where was his daughter? What was she like? Was she
happy? Sometimes he looked at children in the streets; if
their ages seemed right, be speculated on whether, by
merest chance . . . then chided himself for foolishness.
Occasionally the thought haunted him that his daughter
might be ill-treated, or need help which he had no
knowledge or means to give . . . At the instinctive re
minder, now, Vernon Demerest's hands tightened on the
control yoke.
For the first time he realized: he could never endure the same
uncertainty again. His own nature demanded positiveness. He could, and
would, have gone through with the abortion because that was final,
definite; moreover, nothing Anson Harris had said earlier on that subject
had changed his mind. True, he might have doubts, or even sorrow,
afterward. But he would know.
The overhead radio speaker cut abruptly through his thoughts. "Trans
America Two, this is Cleveland

Center. Turn left on beading two zero five. Begin descent, when ready, to
six thousand. Advise when leaving ten.' :
Demerest s hand pulled back all four throttles to begin losing altitude.
He reset the flight path indicator and eased into the turn.
"Trans America Two coming on course two zero five," Anson Harris was
advising Cleveland. "We are leaving ten thousand now."
The buffeting increased as they descended, but with every minute they
were nearer destination and the hope of safety. They were also nearing
the air route boundary point where, at any moment, Cleveland would hand
them over to Chicago Center. After that, there would be thirty minutes
flying before entering the approach control of Lincoln friternational.
Harris said quietly, "Vernon, I guess you know bow badly I feet about
Gwen." He hesitated. "Whatever's between the two of you is none of my
business, but if there's anything I can do as a friend . .
"There's nothing," Demerest said. He had no intention of unburdening
himself to Anson Harris, who was a competent pilot, but still, in
Demerest's eyes, an old maid.
Demerest regretted now that he had revealed as much as he did a few
minutes ago, but emotion got the better of him-something which happened
rarely. Now, he let his face resume a scowl, his shield against
disclosing personal feelings.
"Passing through eight thousand feet," Anson Harris told air route
control.
Demerest continued to hold the aircraft in a steady descent, on course.
His eyes swept the flight instruments in consistent sequence.
He remembered something about the child-bis child –who had been born
eleven years ago. For weeks before the birth, he debated with himself
whether he should confess his infidelity to Sarah, with the suggestion
that they adopt the baby as their own. In the end, his courage had failed
him. He dreaded his wife's shocked reaction; he feared that Sarah would
never

accept the child, whose presence she would regard as a permanent reproach.
Long after, and too late, he realized he had done
Sarali an injustice. True, she would have been shocked
and hurt, ju st as she would be shocked and hurt now, if
she learned about Gwen. But afterward, in a short time,
Sarah's habit of coping would have taken over. For all
Sarah's placidity and what Dernerest thou(~,ht of as her
dullness, despite her suburban bourgeois activities-the
curling Club and amateur oil painting-his wife had a
core of sane solidity. He supposed it was why they had
staye ' d married; why, even now, he could not contem
plate divorce.
Sarah would have worked something out. She would have made him squirm and
suffer for a while, perhaps for a long time. But she would have agreed
to the adoption, and the one who would not have suffered at all would
have been the child. Sarah would have seen to that; she was that kind of
person. He thought: if only . . .
Demerest said aloud, "Life's full of goddamned 'if onlys.'
He leveled out at six thousand feet, advancing the throttles to maintain
speed. The jet whine rose in pitch.
Harris had been busy changing radio frequencies and –now they had passed
the handoff point-reporting to Chicago Center. He asked, "Did you say
something?" Demerest shook his head.
The storm's turbulence was as bad as ever, the aircraft still hein!z
thrown around.
"Trans America Two, we have you in radar contact," a new voice from
Chicago Center rasped.
Harris was still attending to communications.
Vernon Demerest reasoned: So far as Gwen was concerned, lie mi(11it just
as well make a decision now.
All right, he decided; he would face Sarah's tears and denunciations, and
perhaps her anger, but he would tell her about Gwen.
He would admit his responsibdity for Gwen's pregnancy.
At home, the resulting hysteria might last several days and the
aftereffects for weeks or even months,

during which time he would suffer mightily. But when the worst was over
they would work something out. Strangely-and he supposed it showed his
confidence in Sarah-he had not the slightest doubt they would.
He had no idea what they might do, and a good deal would depend on Gwen.
Despite what the doctor had just said about the seriousness of Gwen's
injuries, Demerest had a conviction she would come through. Gwen had
spunk and courage; even unconsciously she would fight to live, and
eventually, whatever impairment she suffered, would adjust to it. She
would also have her own ideas about the baby. She might not give it up
easily or at all. Gwen was not one to be pushed around, or to be told
what to do. She did her own thinking.
The result might be that he would have two women on his hands-plus
child-instead of one. That would take some working out!
It would also pose the question: just how far would Sarah go?
God!-what a mess.
But now that his own first decision was taken, he had the conviction that
something good might result. He reflected grimly: For all it was going
to cost him, in anguish and hard cash, it better had.
The altimeter showed they were maintaining six thousand feet.
There would be the child, of course. Already be was beginning to think
of that part in a new and different way. Naturally, he wouldn't let
himself get sickly sentimental, the way some people-Anson Harris, for
example-were about children; but it would be his child, after all. The
experience would certainly be new.
What was it Gwen had said in the car on their way to the airport tonight?
… a little Vernon Demerest inside me. If we had a boy we could call him
Vernon Demerest, Junior, the way Americans do.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He chuckled.
Harris gJanced sideways. "What are you laughing at?"
Demerest exploded. "I'm not laughing! Why the hell

would I laugh? What is there for any of us to laugh about?"
Harris shrugged, "I thought I heard you."
"That's the second time you've heard things that didn't happen. After
this check ride I suggest you have an ear checkup."
"There's no need to be unpleasant."
"Isn't there? Isn't there?" Dernerest came angrily alert. "Maybe what
this whole situation needs is for someone to get unpleasant."
"If that's true," Harris said, "there's no one better qualified than
you."
"Then when you're through with damnfool questions, start flying again,
and let me talk to those duffers on the ground."
Anson Harris slid his seat forward. "If you want to, why not?" He nodded.
"I have it."
Relinquishing the controls, Dernerest reached for the radio mike. He felt
better, stronger, for a decision taken. Now he would contend with more
immediate things. He let his voice grate harshly. "Chicago Center, this
is Captain Demerest of Trans America Two. Are you still listening down
there, or have you taken sleeping pills and quit?"
"This is Chicago Center, Captain. We're listening, and no one's quit."
The controllers voice held a note of reproach; Dernerest ignored it.
"Then why in blazes aren't we getting action? This Right is in serious
trouble. We need help."
"Stand by, please." There was a pause, then a new voice. "This is Chicago
Center supervisor. Captain, Trans America Two, I heard your last
transmission. Please understand we're doing everything we can. Before you
came into our area we had a dozen people working, clearing other traffic.
They're still doing it. We're giving you priority, a clear radio
frequency, and a straight-in course for Lincoln."
Dernerest barked, "It isn't enough." He paused, holding down the mike
button, then continued. "Chicago supervisor, listen carefully. A
straight-in course to Lincoln is no good if it ends on runway two

five, or any runway except three zero. Don't tell me three zero's out of
use; I've heard it already, and I know why. Now, write this down, and see
that Lincoln understands it too: This airplane is heavily loaded; we'll be
landing very fast. As well as that, we've structural damage including
unserviceable stabilizer trim and doubtful rudder control. If we're broutzht
in on two five, there'll be a broken airplane and dead people before the
next hour is over. So call Lincoln, mister, and turn the screws. Tell them
I don't care how they do it-they can blow apart what's blocking three zero
if they have tobut we need that runway. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Trans America Two, we understand very well." The supervisor's voice
was unruffled, but a shade more human than before. "Your message is being
passed to Lincoln now."
"Good." Dernerest held the transmit button down again. "I have another
message. This one is to Mel Bakersfeld, airport general manager at Lincoln.
Give him the previous message, then add this-personal from his
brother-in-law: 'You helped make this trouble, you bastard, by not
listening to me about airport flight insurance. Now you owe it to me and
all others on this flight to climb off your penguin's butt and get that
runway

T'his time the supervisor's voice was doubtful. "Trans America Two, we've
copied your message. Captain, are you sure you want us to use those words~"
"Chica,-,o Center," Demerest's voice slammed back, "you're damn right
you'll use those words! I'm ordering you to send that message-fast, and
loud, and clear."

13

On ground control radio in his speeding car, Mel Bakersfeld could hear
airport emergency vehicles being summoned and positioned.

"Ground control to city twenty-five."
Twenty-five was the call sign of the airport fire chief.
"This is city twenty-five rolling. Go ahead ground."
"Further information, Category two emer ' gency in ap-
proximately thirty-five minutes. The flig,,ht in question is
disabled and landing on runway three zero, if runway
open. If not open, will use runway two five."
Whenever they could, airport controllers avoided naming, on radio, an
airline involved in any accident, or a potential one, The phrase "the
fli.iht in question" was used as a cover. Airlines were touchy about such
things, taking the view that the fewer times their name was repeated in
that kind of context, the better.
Just the same, Mel was aware, what had happened tonight would get plenty of
publicity, most likely worldwide.
"City twenty-five to ground control. Is the pilot requesting foam on
runway?"
"No foam. Repeat, no foam."
The absence of foam meant that the aircraft had serviceable landing gear
and would not require a belly landing.
All emergency vehicles, Mel knew-pumpers, salvage trucks, and
ambulances-woidd be following the fire chief, who also had a separate radio
channel to communicate with them individually. When an emergency was
notified, no one waited. They observed the principle: better to be ready
too soon than too late. Emergency crews would now take up position between
the two runways, ready to move to either as necessary. The procedure was no
improvisation. Every move for situations like this was detailed in an
airport emergency master plan.
When there was a break in transmissions, Mel thumbed on his own radio mike.
"Ground control from mobile one."
"Mobile one, go ahead."
"Has Joe Patroni, with stalled aircraft on runway three zero, been advised
of new emergency situation?"
"Affirmative. We are in radio touch."
"What is Patroni's report on progress?"

"He expects to move the obstructing aircraft in twenty minutes."
"Is he certain?"
"Ne2ative,"
Mel Bakersfeld waited before transmitting again. He was heading across
the airfield for the second time tonight, one hand on the wheel, the
other on the microphone-driving as fast as he dared in the continued
blowing snow and restricted visibility. Taxi and runway lights,
gUidelines in the dark, flashed by. Beside him on the car's front seat
were Tanya Livingston and the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson.
A few minutes ago, when Tanya had handed Mel her note about the explosion
aboard Flight Two, and the flight's attempt to reach Lincoln
International, Mel had broken free instantly from the crowd of Meadowood
residents. With Tanya beside him, he headed for the elevators which would
take him to the basement garage two floors below, and his official
airport car. Mel's place now was on runway three zero, if necessary to
take charge. Shouldering his way through the crowd in the main concourse,
he had caught sight of the Tribune reporter and said tersely, "Come with
me." He owed Tomlinson a favor in return for the reporter's tip-off about
Elliott Freemantle-both the legal contract form and the lawyer's
mendacious statements later, which Mel had been able to repudiate. When
Tomlinson hesitated, Mel snapped, "I haven't time to waste. But I'm
giving you a chance you may be sorry for not taking." Without further
questioning, Tomlinson fell in step beside him.
Now, as they drove, Mel accelerating ahead of taxiing aircraft where he
could, Tanya repeated the substance of the news about Flight Two.
"Let me get this straight," Tomlinson said. "There's only one runway long
enough, and facing the right direction?"
Mel said grimly, "That's the way it is. Even though there should be two."
He was remembering bitterly the proposals he had made, over three
successive years, for an additional runway to parallel three zero. The
airport

needed it. Traffic volume and aircraft safety cried out for implementation
of Mel's report, particularly since the runway would take two years to
build. But other influences proved stronger. Money had not been found, the
new runway had not been built. Nor had construetion-despite Mel's further
pleas-yet been approved.
With a good many projects, Mel could swing the Board of Airport
Commissioners his way. In the case of the proposed new. runway, he had
canvassed them individually and received promises of support, but later
the promises were withdrawn. Theoretically, airport commissioners were
independent of political pressure; in fact, they owed their appointments
to the mayor and, in most cases, were political partisans themselves. If
pressure was put on the mayor to delay an airport bond issue because of
other projects, similarly financed and more likely to swing votes, the
pressure penetrated through. In the case of the proposed new runway it
not only penetrated, but three times had proved effective. Ironically,
as Mel remembered earlier tonight, tripledecking of the airport's public
parking lots-less necessary, but more visible-had not been held up.
Briefly, and in plain words, which until now he had reserved for private
sessions, Mel described the situation, including its political overtones.
"I'd like to use all that as coming from you." Tomlinson's voice held the
controlled excitement of a reporter who knew he was on to a good story.
"May IT'
There would be the devil to pay after it appeared in print, Mel realized;
he could imagine the indignant telephone calls from City Hall on Monday
morning. But someone should say it. The public ought to know how serious
the situation was.
"Go ahead," Mel said. "I guess I'm in a quoting mood."
"That's what I thought." From the far side of the car the reporter
regarded Mel quizzically. "If you don't mind my saying so, you've been
in great form tonight. Just now, and with the lawyer and those Meadowood
people. More like your old self. I haven't heard you speak out like that
in a long while."

Mel kept his eyes on the taxiway ahead, waiting to pass an Eastern DC-8,
which was turning left. But he was thinking: Had his demeanor of the past
year or two, the absence of his old fiery spirit, been so obvious that
others had noticed it also?
Beside him, close enough so that Mel was conscious of her nearness and
warmth, Tanya said softly, "Ali the time we're talking … about runways,
the public, Meadowood, other things . . . I'm thinking about those people
on Flight Two. I wonder how they're feeling, if they're afraid."
"They're afraid, all right," Mel said. "If they've any sense, and
provided they know what's happening. I'd be afraid, too."
He was remembering his own fear when he had been trapped in the sinking
Navy airplane, long ago. As if triggered by memory, he felt a surge of
pain around the old wound in his foot. In the past hour's excitement he
had adjusted to ignoring it, but as always, with tiredness and
overstrain, the effect forced itself on him in the end. Mel compressed
his lips tightly and hoped that soon the seizure would lessen or pass.
He had been waiting for another gap in ground-toground radio exchanges.
As one occurred, Mel depressed his mike button once more.
"Mobile one to ground control. Do you have report on how critical is the
requirement of the flight in distress for runway three zero?"
"Mobile one, we understand very critical. Is that Mr. Bakersfeld?"
"Yes, it is."
"Stand by, sir. We're getting more information now."
Still driving, nearing runway three zero, Mel waited. What came next
would determine whether or not to follow the drastic course of action he
was contemplating.
"Ground control to mobile one. Following message just received, via
Chicago Center, from flight in question. Message begins. Straight-in
course to Lincoln no good if ends on runway two five. Airplane heavily
loaded, will be landing very fast. . ."

The trio in the car listened tensely to the report of Vernon Demerest's
message. At the words, "lf we're brought in on two live there'll be a
broken airplane and dead people," Mel heard Tanya's sharp intake of
breath, felt her shudder beside him.
He was about to acknowledge when ground control transmitted again.
"Mobile one-Mr. Bakersfeld, there is an addition to previous message,
personal to you, from your brotherin-law. Can you reach a phone?"
"Negative," Mel said. "Read it now, please."
"Mobile one"-he sensed the controller hesitate"the language is very
personal."
The controller was aware-as Mel was-that many ears around the airport
would be listening.
"Does it concern the present situation?"
"Affirmative."
"Then read it."
"Yes, sir. Message begins. 'You helped make this trouble, you bastard,
by not listening to me about airport flight insurance . . .
Mel's mouth tightened, but he waited to the end, then acknowledged
noncommittally, "Roger, out." He was sure that Vernon had enjoyed sending
the message, as much as anything could be enjoyed aboard Flight Two at
present, and would be even more pleased to learn the way it was received.
The extra message was unnecessary, though. Mel had already made his
decision on the basis of the first.
His car was now speeding down runway three zero. The circle of
floodlights and vehicles surrounding the mired A6reo-Mexican 707 jet were
coming into sight. Mel noted approvingly that the runway was only lightly
snow-covered. Despite the blockage of one portion, the remainder had been
kept plowed.
He switched his radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.
"Mobile one to Snow Desk."
"This is Snow Desk." Danny Farrow's voice sounded tired, which was not
surprising. "Go ahead."
"Danny," Mel said, "break the Conga Line. Send the

Oshkosh plows and heavy graders across to runway three zero. They're to
head for where the stuck airplane is, and await instructions. Get them
started now, then call me back."
"Roger, wilco." Danny seemed about to add a question, then apparently
changed his mind. A moment later, on the same frequency, the occupants
of the car heard him issue orders to the Conga Line convoy leader.
The Tribune reporter leaned forward around Tanya.
"I'm still fitting pieces together," Tomlinson said. "That bit about
flight insurance . . . Your brother-inlaw's an Air Line Pilots
Association wheel, isn't he?"
"Yes." Mel halted the car on the runway, a few feet short of the circle
of lights around the big, stalled aircraft. There was plenty of action,
he could see; beneath the aircraft fuselage, and on both sides, men were
digging feverishly. The stocky form of Joe Patroni was visible directing
activities. In a moment Mel would join him, after the return radio call
from Danny Farrow at the Snow Desk.
The reporter said thoughtfully, "I think I heard something awhile back.
Didn't your brother-in-law make a big play to cancel insurance vending
here-the way ALPA wants to-and you turned him down?"
"I didn't turn him down. The airport board did, though I agreed with
them."
"If it isn't an unfair question, has what's happened tonight made you
change your mind?"
Tanya protested, "Surely this isn't the time . .
"I'll answer that," Mel said. "I haven't changed my mind, at least not
yet. But I'm thinking about it."
Mel reasoned: the time for a change of heart about flight insurance-if
there was to be one-was not now, in the height of emotion and the wake
of tragedy. In a day or two, what had occurred tonight would be seen in
better perspective. Mel's own decision-whether to urge the airport board
to revise its policy, or not-should be made then. Meanwhile, no one could
deny that tonight's events added strength to Vernon Demerest's-and the
Air Line Pilots Association-arguments.
Possibly, Mel supposed, a compromise might be

worked out. An ALPA spokesman once confided to him that the pilots did not
expect their anti-airport insurance campaign to be won, either outright or
quickly; success would take years and "would have to be cut like bologna-a
slice at a time." One slice at Lincoln International miglit be to prohibit
use of non-supervised insurance vending machines, as some airports had
already done. One state-Colorado-had outlawed the machines by Legislative
Act. Other states, Mel knew, were considering similar legislation, though
there was nothing to stop airports, meanwhile, from acting on their own.
It was the insurance vending machine system which Mel liked least, even
though D. 0. Guerrero's huge insurance policy tonight had not been bought
that way. Then, if over-the-counter sales remained-for a few more years
until public opinion could be molded-there would have to be more safeguards
…
Even though Mel had resolved not to make a firm decision, it was obvious to
himself which way his reasoning was going.
The radio, still tuned to airport maintenance frequency, had been busy with
calls between vehicles. Now it announced, "Snow Desk to mobile one."
Mel responded, "Go ahead, Danny."
"Four plows and three graders, with convoy leader, are on their way to
runway three zero as instructed. What orders, please?"
Mel chose his words carefully, aware that somewhere in an electronic maze
beneath the control tower they were being recorded on tape. Later he might
have to justify them. He also wanted to be sure there was no
misunderstanding.
"Mobile one to Snow Desk. All plows and graders, under direction of convoy
leader, will stand by near A6reo-Mexican aircraft which is blocking runway
three zero. Vehicles are not, repeat not, initially to obstruct the
aircraft, which in a few minutes will attempt to move under its own power.
But if that attempt fafls, plows and graders will be ordered in to push the
aircraft sideways, and to clear the runway. This will be done at any cost,
and with all speed. Runway three zero must be

open for use in approximately thirty minutes, by which time the
obstructing aircraft and all vehicles must be clear. I will coordinate
with air traffic control to decide at what time the plows will be ordered
in, if necessary. Acknowled-e, and confirm. that these instructions are
understood ' 11
Inside the car the reporter, Tomlinson, whistled softly. Tanya turned
toward Mel, her eyes searching his face.
On radio there were several seconds' silence, then Danny Farrow's voice.
"I guess I understand. But I'd better be sure." He repeated the gist of
the message, and Mel could imagine Danny sweating again, as he had been
earlier.
"Roger," Mel acknowledged. "But be clear about one thing. If those plows
and graders go in, I'll give the order; no one else."
"It's clear," Danny radioed. "And better you than me. Mel, I guess you've
figured what that equipment of ours'll do to a 707."
"It'll move it," Mel said tersely. "Right now that's the important
thing." There was, Mel knew, other motorized equipment in Airport
Maintenance, capable of the same kind of brute force clearing job; but
using the Conga Line units, already on the runways, would be surer and
faster. He signed off, and replaced the radio mike.
Tomlinson said incredulously, "Move it! A six-million dollar airplane
shoved sideways by snowplows! My God, you'll tear it to pieces! And
afterward, the owners and insurers'll do the same to you."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Mel said. "Of course, a lot depends on your
point of view. If the owners and insurers were on that other flight
coming in, they might be cheering."
"Well," the reporter conceded, 'I'll grant you there are some decisions
take a lot of guts."
Tanya's hand reached down beside her and found Mel's. She said softly,
emotion in her voice, "I'm cheering-for what you're doing now. Whatever
happens after, I'll remember."

The plows and graders which Mel had summoned were coming into sight,
traveling fast down the runway, roof beacons flashing.
"It may never happen." Mel squeezed Tanya's hand before releasing it,
then opened the car door. "We've twenty minutes to hope it won't."

When Mel Bakersfeld approached him, Joe Patroni was stomping his feet in
an effort to be warm; the effort was largely unsuccessful despite the
fleece-lined boots and heavy parka the TWA maintenance chief was wearing.
Apart from the brief time Patroni had spent on the aircraft flight deck
when the Afteo-Mexican captain and first officer departed, he had been
continuously out in the storm since his arrival on the scene more than
three hours ago. As well as being cold and physically tired from his
various exertions of the day and night, his failure to move the stranded
jet despite two attempts so far, had made his temper ready to erupt.
It almost did, at the news of Mel's intention.
With anyone else, Joe Patroni would have stormed and ranted. Because Mel
was a close friend, Patrord removed the unlighted cigar he had been
chewing, and eyed Mel unbelievingly. "Shove an undamaged airplane with
snowplows! Are you out of your mind?"
"No," Mel said. "I'm out of runways."
Mel fell a momentary depression at the thought that no one in authority,
other than himself, seemed to understand the urgency of clearing three
zero, at any cost. Obviously, if he went ahead as he intended, there
would be few who would support his action afterward. On the other hand,
Mel had not the least doubt there would be plenty of people tomorrow with
hindsight-including A6reo-Mexican officials-who would assert he could
have done this or that, or that Flight Two should have landed on runway
two five after all. Obviously his decision was to be a lonely one. It did
not change Mel's conviction that it should be made.
At the si(yht of the assembled plows and graders, now deDlov –d :In line
on the runway, to their ritTht, Patroni dropped his cigar altogether. As
he produced another he

growled, "I'll save you from your own insanity. Keep those Dinky Toys of
yours out of my hair and away from this airplane. In fifteen minutes,
maybe less, I'll drive it out."
Met shouted to make himself heard above the wind and roaring engines of
vehicles around them. "Joe, let's be clear about one thing. When the
tower tells us we're running out of time, that's it; there'll be no
argument. People's lives are involved on the flight that's coming in. If
you've engines running, they're to be shut down. At the same time all
equipment and the men must move clear immediately. Make sure in advance
that all your people understand. The plows will move on my order. If and
when they do, they won't waste time."
Patroni nodded gloomily. Despite his outburst, Mel thought, the
maintenance chief's usual cocky self-assurance seemed abated.
Mel returned to his car. Tanya and the reporter, huddled in their coats,
had been standing outside, watching the work of digging around the
aircraft. They got into the car with him, grateful for the warmth inside.
Once more, Mel called ground control on radio, this time asking for the
tower watch chief. After a brief pause, the tower chief's voice came on
the air.
In a few words Met explained his intention. What he sought from air
traffic control now was an estimate of bow long he could wait before
ordering the plows and graders to move. Once they did, it would take only
minutes to have the obstructing aircraft clear.
"The way it looks now," the tower chief said, "the flight in question
will be here sooner than we thought. Chicago Center expects to hand over
to our approach control in twelve minutes from now. After that we'll be
controlling the flight for eight to ten minutes before landing, which
would make time of touchdown, at latest, 0128."
Mel checked his watch in the dim light from the dash. It showed 1: 0 1
A.M.
"A choice of which runway to use," the tower chief said, "will have to
be made no later than five minutes

before landing. After that, they'll be committed; we can't turn them."
So What it meant, Mel calculated, was that his own final decision must be
made in another seventeen minutes, perhaps less, depending on the handover
time from Chicago Center to Lincoln approach control. There was even less
time remaining than he had told Joe Patroai.
Mel found he, too, was beginning to sweat.
Should lie warn Patroni again, informing him of the reduced time? Mel
decided not. The maintenance chief was already directing operations at the
fastest pace he could. Nothing would be gained by harassing him further.
"Mobile one to ground control," Mel radioed. "I'll need to be kept informed
of exact status of the approaching flight. Can we hold this frequency
clear?"
"Affirmative," the tower chief said. "We've already moved regular traffic
to another frequency. We'll keep you informed."
Mel acknowledged and signed off.
Beside him, Tanya asked, "What happens now?"
"We wait." Mel checked his watch again.
A minute went by. Two.
Outside they could see men working, still digging feverishly near the front
and on each side of the mired aircraft. With a flash of headlights, another
truck arrived; men jumped down from its tailgate and hastened to join the
others. Joe Patroni's stocky figure was moving constantly, instructing and
exhorting.
The plows and graders were still in line, waiting. In a way, Mel thought,
like vultures.
The reporter, Tomlinson, broke the silence inside the car.
"I was just thinking. When I was a kid, which isn't all that long ago, most
of this place was fields. In summer there were cows and com and barley.
There was a grass airfield; small; nobody thought it would amount to much.
If anyone traveled by air, they used the airport in the city."
"That's aviation," Tanya said. She felt a momentary relief at being able to
think and talk of something other

than what they were waiting for. She went on, "Somebody told me once that
working in aviation makes a lifetime seem longer because everything
changes so often and so fast."
Tomlinson objected, "Not everything's fast. With airports, the changes
aren't fast enough. Isn't it true, Mr. Bakersfeld, that within three to
four years there'll be chaos?"
"Chaos is always relative," Mel said; the focus of his mind was still on
the scene he could see through the car windshield. "In a good many ways
we manage to live with it."
"Aren't you dodging the question?"
"Yes," he conceded. "I suppose I am."
It was scarcely surprising, Mel thought. He was less concerned with
aviation philosophy at this moment than with the immediacy of what was
happening outside. But he sensed Tanya's need for a lessening of tension,
even if illusory his awareness of her feelings was part of the empathy
they seemed increasingly to share. He reminded himself, too, that it was
a Trans America flight they were waiting for, and which might land safely
or might not. Tanya was a part of Trans America, had helped with the
flight's departure. In a real sense, of the three of them she had the
most direct involvement.
With an effort he concentrated on what Tomlinson had said.
"It's always been true," Mel declared, "that in aviation, progress in the
air has been ahead of progress on the ground. We sometimes think we'll
catch up; in the mid-1960s we almost did but by and large we never do.
The best we can manage, it seems, is not to lag too far behind."
The reporter persisted, "What should we do about airports? What can we
do?"
"We can think more freely, with more imagination, for one thing. We
should get rid of the railway station mind."
"You believe we still have it?"
Mel nodded. "Unfortunately, in a good many places. All our early airports
were imitation railway stations

because designers had to draw on experience from somewhere. and railroad
experience was all they had. Aftetward, the habit remained. It's the reason,
nowadays, we have so many 'straig ht line' airports, where terminals stretch
on and on, and passengers must walk for mHes."
Tomlinson asked, "Isn't some of that changing?"
"Slowly, and in just a few places." As always, despite the pressures of the
moment, Mel was warming to his theme. "A few airports are being built as
circles-like doughnuts with car parking inside, instead of somewhere out
beyond; with minimum distances for people to walk with aids like high-speed
horizontal elevators; with airplanes brought close to passengers instead of
the other way around. What it means is that airports are finally being
thought of as special and distinct also as units instead of separate
components. Creative ideas, even outlandish ones, are being listened to.
Los Angeles is proposing a big, offshore seadrome; Chicago, a manmade
airport island in Lake Michigan; nobody's scoffing. American Airlines has
a plan for a giant hydraulic lift to stack airplanes one above the other
for loading and unloading. But the changes are slow, they're not
coordinated; we build airports like an unimaginative, patchwork quilt. It's
as if phone subscribers designed and made their own telephones, then
plugged them into a world-wide system."
The radio cut abruptly across Mel's words. "Ground control to mobile one
and city twenty-five. Chicago Center now estimates handoff of the flight in
question to Lincoln approach control will be 0117."
Mel's watch showed 1:06 A.m. The message meant that Flight Two was already
a minute earlier than the tower chief had forecast. A minute less for Joe
Patroni to work only eleven minutes to Mel's own decision.
"Mobile one, is there any change in the status of runway three zero?"
"Negative; no change."
Mel wondered: was he cutting things too fine? He was tempted to direct the
snowplows and graders to move now, then restrained himself. Responsibility
was a

two-way street, especially when it came to ordering the near-destruction
of a six-million dollar aircraft on the ground. There was still a chance
that Joe Patroni might make it, though with every second the possibility
was lessening. In front of the stalled 707, Mel could see, some of the
floodlights and other equipment were being moved clear. But the aircraft's
engines had not yet been started.
"Those creative people," Tomlinson queried, "the ones you were talking
about. Who are they?"
With only half his mind, Mel acknowledged, "It's hard to make a list."
He was watching the scene outside. The remainder of the vehicles and
equipment in front of the stalled A6reo-Mexican 707 bad now been moved
clear, and Joe Patroni's stocky, snow-covered figure was climbing the
boarding ramp, positioned near the aircraft's nose. Near the top, Patroni
stopped, turned, and gestured; he appeared to be shouting to others
below. Now Patroni opened the front fuselage door and went inside; almost
at once another, slighter figure climbed the ramp and followed him. The
aircraft door slammed. Others below trundled the ramp away.
Inside the car, the reporter asked again, "Mr. Bakersfeld, could you name
a few of those people-the most imaginative ones about airports and the
future?"
"Yes," Tanya said, "couldn't you?"
Mel thought: it would be like a parlor game while the house was burning.
All right, he decided if Tanya wanted him to, he would play.
"I can think of some," Mel said. "Fox of Los Angeles; Joseph Foster of
Houston, now with ATA of America. Alan Boyd in government; and Thomas
Sullivan, Port of New York Authority. In the airlines: Halaby of Pan Am;
Herb Godfrey of United. In Canada, John C. Parkin, In Europe-Pierre Cot
of Air France; Count Castell in Germany. There are others."
"Including Mel Bakersfeld," Tanya injected. "Aren't you forgetting him?"
Tomlinson, who had been making notes, grunted. "I 'already put him down.
It goes without saying."

Mel smiled. But did it, he wondered, go without saying? Once, not long
ago, the statement would have been true; but he knew that on the national
scene he had slipped from view. When that happened, when you left the
mainstream for whatever reason, you were apt to be forgotten quickly; and
later, even if you wanted to, sometimes you never did get back. It was
not that he was doing a less important job at Lincoln International, or
doing it less well; as an airport general manager, Mel knew he was as
good as ever, probably better. But the big contribution which he had once
seemed likely to make no longer was in view. He realized that this was
the second time tonight the same thought had occurred to him. Did it
matter? Did he care? He decided; Yes, he did!
"Look!" Tanya cried out. "They're starting the engines."
The reporter's head came up; Mel felt his own excitement sharpen.
Behind number three engine of the A6reo-Mexican 707, a puff of white-gray
smoke appeared. Briefly it intensified, then whirled away as the engine
fired and held. Now snow was streaming rear-ward in the jet blast.
A second puff of smoke appeared behind number four engine, a moment later
to be whisked away, snow following.
"Ground control to mobile one and city twenty-five." Within the car the
radio voice was so unexpected that Mel felt Tanya give a startled jump
beside him. "Chicago Center advises revised handoff time of the flight
in question will be 0 116 seven minutes from now. "
Flight Two, Mel realized, was still coming in faster than expected. It
meant they had lost another minute.
Again Mel held his watch near the light of the dash.
On the soft ground near the opposite side of the runway from their car,
Patroni now had number two engine started. Number one followed. Mel said
softly, "They could still make it." Then he remembered that all engines
had been started twice before tonight, and both attempts to blast the
stuck airplane free had failed.

In front of the mired 707 a solitary figure with flashlight signal wands
had moved out ahead to where he could be seen from the aircraft flight
deck. The man with the wands was holdina them above his head, indicating
"all clear." Mel could hear and feel the jet engines' thrum, but sensed
they had not yet been advanced in power.
Six minutes left. Why hadn't Patroni opened up?
Tanya said tensely, "I don't think I can bear the waiting."
The reporter shifted in his seat. "I'm sweating too."
Joe Patroni was opening up! This was it! Mel could hear and feel the
greater all-encom passing roar of engines. Behind the stalled
A6reo-Mexican jet, great gusts of snow were blowing wildly into the
darkness beyond the runway lights.
"Mobile one," the radio demanded sharply, "this is ground control. Is
there any change in status of runway three zero?"
Patror~, Mel calculated by his watch, had three minutes left.
"The airplane's still stuck." Tanya was peering intently through the car
windshield. "They're using aU the engines, but it isn't moving."
It was straining forward, though; that much Mel could see, even through
the blowing snow. But Tanya was right. The aircraft wasn't moving.
The snowplows and heavy graders had shifted closer together, their
beacons flashing brightly.
"Hold it!" Mel said on radio. "Hold it! Don't commit that flight coming
in to runway two five. One way or the other, there'll be a change in
three zero status any moment now."
He switched the car radio to Snow Desk frequency, ready to activate the
plows.

14

Ordinarily, after midnight, pressures in air traffic control relented
slightly. Tonight they hadn't. Because of the storm, airlines at Lincoln
International were continuing to dispatch and receive flights which were
hours late. More often than not, their lateness was added to by the
general runway and taxiway congestion still prevailing.
Most members of the earlier eight-hour watch in air traffic control had
ended their shift at midnight and gone wearily home. Newcomers on duty
had taken their place. A few controllers, because of staff shortage and
illness of others, had been assigned a spreadover shift which would end
at 2 A .m. They included the tower watch chief; Wayne Tevis, the radar
supervisor; and Keith Bakersfeld.
Since the emotion-charged session with his brother, which ended abruptly
and abortively an hour and a half ago, Keith had sought relief of mind
by concentrating intensely on the radar screen in front of him. If he
could maintain his concentration, he thought, the remaining time-the last
he would ever have to fill-would pass quickly. Keith had continued
handling east arrivals, working with a young assistant-a radar handoff
man –seated on his left. Wayne Tevis was still supervising, riding his
castor-equipped stool around the control room, propelled by his Texan
boots, though less energetically, as Tevis's own duty shift neared an
end.
In one sense, Keith had succeeded in his concentration; yet in a strange
way he bad not. It seemed almost as if his mind had split into two
levels, like a duplex, and he was able to be in both at once On one level
he was directing east arrivals traffic-at the moment, without problems.
On the other, his thoughts were personal and introspective. It was not
a condition which could last, but perhaps, Keith thought, his mind was
like

a light bulb about to fail and, for its last few minutes, burning
brightest.
The personal side of his thoughts was dispassionate now, and calmer than
before; perhaps the session with Mel had achieved that, if nothing more.
All things seemed ordained and settled. Keith's duty shift would end; he
would leave this place; soon after, all waiting and all anguish would be
over. He had the conviction that his own life and others' were already
severed; he no longer belonged to Natalie or Mel, or Brian and Theo . .
. or they to him. He belonged to the already dead-to the Redfems who had
died together in the wreck of their Beech Bonanza; to little Valerie .
. . her family. That was it! Why had he never thought of it that way
before; realized that his own death was a debt he owed the Redferns? With
continued dispassion, Keith wondered if he were insane; people who chose
suicide were said to be, but either way it made no difference. His choice
was between torment and peace; and before the light of morning, peace
would come. Once more, as it had intermittently in the past few hours,
his hand went into his pocket, fingering the key to room 224 of the
O'Hagan Inn.
All the while, on the other mental level, and with traces of his old
flair, he coped with cast arrivals.
Awareness of the crisis with Trans America Flight Two came to Keith
gradually.
Lincoln air traffic control had been advised of Flight Two's intention
to return there-almost an hour ago, and seconds after Captain Anson
Harris's decision was made known. Word had come by "hot line" telephone
directly from Chicago Center supervisor to the tower watch chief, after
similar notification through Cleveland and Toronto centers. Initially
there had been little to do at Lincoln beyond advising the airport
management, through the Snow Desk, of the flight's request for runway
three zero.
Later, when Flight Two had been taken over from Cleveland, by Chicago
Center, more specific preparations were begun.
Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor, was alerted by the

tower chief, who went personally to the radar room to inform Tevis of
Flight Two's condition, its estimated arrival time, and the doubt about
which runway-two five or three zero-was to be used for landing.
At the same time, ground control was notifying airport emergency services
to stand by and, shortly after, to move with their vehicles onto the
airfield.
A ground controller talked by radio telephone with Joe Patroni to check
that Patroni had been advised of the urgent need for runway three zero.
He had.
Contact was then established, on a reserve radio frequency, between the
control tower and the flight deck of the A6reo-Mexican jet which blocked
the runway. The setup was to ensure that when Patroni was at the air-
craft's controls, there could be instant two-way communication, if
needed.
In the radar room, when he bad listened to the tower chief's news, Wayne
Tevis's initial reaction was to glance at Keith. Unless duties were
changed around, it would be Keith, in charge of east arrivals, who would
accept Flight Two from Chicago Center, and monitor the flight in.
Tevis asked the tower chief quietly, "Should we take Keith off; put
someone else on?"
The older man hesitated. He remembered the earlier emergency tonight
involving the Air Force KC-135. He bad removed Keith from duty then, on
a pretext, and afterward wondered if he had been too hasty. When a man
was teeter-tottering between self-assurance and the loss of it, it was
easy to send the scales the wrong way without intending to. The tower
chief had an uneasy feeling, too, of having blundered into something
private between Keith and Mel Bakersfeld when the two of them were
talking earlier in the corridor outside. He could have left them alone
for a few minutes longer, but hadn't.
The tower watch chief was tired himself, not only from the trying shift
tonight, but from others which preceded it. He remembered reading
somewhere recently that new air traffic systems, being readied for the
mid-1970s, would halve controllers' work loads, thereby

reducing occupational fatigue and nervous breakdowns. The tower c1iief
remained skeptical. He doubted if, in air traffic control, pressures would
ever lighten; if they eased in one way, he thought, they would increase
in another. It made him sympathize with those who, like Keith-still gaunt,
pate, strained-had proved victims of the system.
Still in an undertone, Wayne Tevis repeated, "Do I take him off, or not?"
The tower chief shook his head. Low-voiced, he answered, "Let's not push
it. Keep Keith on, but stay close."
It was then that Keith, observing the two with heads together, guessed
that something critical was coming up. He was, after all, an old hand,
familiar with signals of impending trouble.
Instinct told him, too, that the supervisors' conversation was in part,
about himself. He could understand why. Keith had no doubt he would be
relieved from duty in a few minutes from now, or shifted to a less vital
radar position. He found himself not caring.
It was a surprise when Tevis-without shuffling duties-began warning all
watch positions of the expected arrival of Trans America Tw'o, in
distress, and its priority handling.
Departure control was cautioned: Route all departures well clear of the
flight's anticipated route in.
To Keith, Tevis expounded the runway problem-the uncertainty as to which
runway was to be used, and the need to postpone a decision until the last
possible moment.
"You work out your own plan, buddy boy," Tevis instructed in his nasal
Texas drawl. "And after the handover, stay with it. We'll take everything
else off your hands."
At first, Keith nodded agreement, no more perturbed than he had been
before. Automatically, he began to calculate the flight pattern he would
use. Such plans were always worked out mentally. There was never time to
commit them to paper; besides, the need for improvisation usually turned
up.

As soon as he received the flight from Chicago Center, Keith reasoned,
he would head it generally toward runway three zero, but with sufficient
leeway to swing the aircraft left-though without drastic turns at low
altitude-if runway two five was forced on them as the final choice.
He calculated: He would have the aircraft under approach control for
approximately ten minutes. Tevis had already advised him that not until
the last five, probably, would they know for sure about the runway. It
was slicing things fine, and there would be sweating in the radar room,
as well as in the air. But it could be managed-just. Once more, in his
mind, Keith went over the planned flight path and compass headings.
By then, more definite reports had begun to filter, unofficially, through
the tower. Controllers passed information to each other as work gaps
permitted . . . The flight had had a mid-air explosion. It was limping
in with structural damage and injured people … Control of the airplane
was in doubt. The pilots needed the longest runway-which might or might
not be available … Captain Demerest's warning was repeated: … on two
five a broken airplane and dead people . . . The captain had sent a
savage message to the airport manager. Now, the manager was out on three
zero, trying to get the runway cleared . . . The time available was
shortening.
Even among the controllers, to whom tension was as commonplace as
traffic, there was now a shared nervous anxiety.
Keith's radar handoff man, seated alongside, passed on the news which
came to him in snatches. As he did, Keith's awareness and apprehension
grew. He didn't want this, or any part of it! There was nothing he sought
to prove, or could; nothing he might retrieve, even if he handled the
situation well. And if he didn't, if he mishandled it, he might send a
planeload of people to their deaths, as lie had done once before.
Across the radar room, on a direct line, Wayne Tevis took.a telephone
call from the tower watch chief. A few

minutes ago the chief bad gone one floor above, into the tower cab, to
remain beside the ground controller.
Hanging up, Tevis propelled his chair alongside Keith. "The old man just
had word from center. Trans America Two-three minutes from handoff."
The supervisor moved on to departure control, checking that outward
traffic was being routed clear of the approaching flight.
The man on Keith's left reported that out on the airfield they were still
trying frantically to shift the stranded jet blocking runway three zero.
They had the engines running, but the airplane wouldn't move. Keith's
brother (tbe handoff man said) had taken charge, and if the airplane
wouldn't move on its own, was going to smash it to pieces to clear the
runway. But everybody was asking: was there time?
If Mel thought so, Keith reasoned, there probably was. Mel coped, he
managed things; he always had. Keith couldn't cope-at least not always,
and never in the same way as Mel. It was the difference between them.
Almost two minutes had gone by.
Alongside Keith, the handoff man said quietly, "They're coming on the
scope." On the edge of the radarscope Keith could see the double blossom
radar distress signal-unmistakably Trans America Two.
Keith wanted out! He couldn't do it! Someone else must take over; Wayne
Tevis could himself. There was still time.
Keith swung away from the scope looking for Tevis. The supervisor was at
departure control, his back toward Keith.
Keith opened his mouth to call. To his horror, no words came. He tried
again . . . the same.
He realized: It was as in the dream, his nightmare; his voice had failed
him . . . But this was no dream; this was reality! Wasn't it? … Still
struggling to articulate, panic gripped him.
On a panel above the scope, a flashing white light indicated that Chicago
Center was calling. The handoff man picked up a direct line phone and
instructed, "Go

ahead, center." He turned a selector, cutting in a speaker overhead so
that Keith could hear.
"Lincoln, Trans America Two is thirty miles southeast of the airport.
He's on a heading of two five zero."
"Roger, center. We have him in radar contact. Change him to our
frequency." The handoff man replaced the phone.
Center, they knew, would now be instructing the flight to change radio
frequency, and probably wishing them good luck. It usually happened that
way when an aircraft was in trouble; it seemed the least that anyone
could do from the secure comfort of the ground. In this isolated,
comfortably warm room of low-key sounds, it was difficult to accept that
somewhere outside, high in the night and darkness, buffeted by wind and
storm, its survival in doubt, a crippled airliner was battling home.
The east arrivals radio frequency came alive. A harsh voice, unmistakably
Vernon Demerest's; Keith hadn't thought about that until this moment.
"Lincoln approach control, this is Trans America Two, maintai i g six
thousand feet, heading two five zero."
The handoff man was waiting expectantly. It was Keith's moment to
acknowledge, to take over. But he wanted out! Wayne Tevis was still
turned away! Keith's speech wouldn't come.
"Lincoln approach control," the voice from Trans America Two grated
again, "where in hell are you?"
Where in hell …
Why wouldn't Tevis turn?
Keith seethed with sudden rage. Damn Tevis! Damn air traffic control!
Damn his dead father, Wild Blue Bakersfeld, who led his sons into a
vocation Keith hadn't wanted to begin with! Damn Mel, with his infuri-
ating self-sufficient competence! Damn here and nowl Damn evervthing! .
. .
The handoft man was looking at Keith curiously. At any moment Trans
America Two would call again. Keith knew that he was trapped. Wondering
if his voice would work, he keyed his mike.
"Trans America Two," Keith said, "this is Lincoln approach control. Sorry
about the delay. We're still

hoping for runway three zero; we shall know in three to five minutes."
A growled acknowledgment, "Roger, Lincoln. Keep us informed."
Keith was concentrating now; the extra level of his mind had ctosed. He
forgot Tevis, his father, Mel, himself. All else was excluded but the
problem of Flight Two.
He radioed clearly and quietly, "Trans America Two, you are now
twenty-five miles east of the outer marker. Begin descent at your
discretion. Start a right turn to heading two six zero . . ."

One floor above Keith, in the glass-walled tower cab, the ground
controller had advised Mel Bakersfeld that handoff from Chicago Center
had occurred.
Mel radioed back, "Snowplows and graders have been ordered to move, and
clear the A6reo-Mexican aircraft from the runway. Instruct Patroni to
shut down all engines immediately. Tell him-if he can, get clear himself;
if not, hold on tight. Stand by for advice when runway is clear."
On a second frequency, the tower chief was already informing Joe Patroni.

15

Even before it happened, Joe Patroni knew he was running out of time.
He had deliberately not started the engines of the Afteo-Mexican 707
until the latest possible moment, wanting the work of clearing under and
around the aircraft to continue as long as it could.
When he realized that he could wait no longer, Patroni made a final
inspection. What he saw gave him grave misgivings.

The landing gear was still not as clear from surrounding earth, mud, and
snow as it should be. Nor were the trenches, inclining upward from the
present level of the main wheels to the hard surface of the nearby
taxiway, as wide or deep as he had wanted. Another fifteen minutes would
have done it.
Patroni knew he didn't have the time.
Reluctantly he ascended the boarding ramp, to make his second attempt at
moving the mired aircraft, now with himself at the controls.
He shouted to Ingram, the A6rco-Mexican foreman, "Get everybody clear!
We're starting up."
From under the aircraft, figures began to move out.
Snow was still falling, but more lightly than for several hours.
Joe Patroni called again from the boarding.ramp. "I need somebody with
me on the flight deck, but let's keep the weight down. Send me a skinny
guy who's cockpit qualified."
He let himself into the aircraft's forward door.
Inside, through the flight deck windows, Patroni could see Mel
Bakersfeld's airport car, its bright yellow coloring reflected through
the darkness. The car was parked on the runway, to the left. Near it was
the line of snowplows and graders-a reminder, if he needed one, that he
had only a few minutes more.
The maintenance chief had reacted with shocked disbelief when Mel
announced his plan to shove the A6reo-Mexican aircraft clear of runway
three zero by force, if necessary. The reaction was natural, but was not
through indifference to the safety of those aboard Trans America Flight
Two. Joe Patroni lived with thoughts of aircraft safety, which was the
object of his daily work, It was simply that the idea of reducing an
undamaged aircraft to a pile of scrap metal, or something close to it,
was near-impossible for him to grasp. In Patroni's eyes, an aircraft-any
aircraft-represented devotion, skill, engineering know-how, hours of
labor, and sometimes love. Almost anything was better than its deliberate
destruction. Almost anything.
Patroni intended to save the airplane if he could.

Behind him, the fuselage door opened, and slammed closed.
A young mechanic, small and spare, came forward to the flight deck,
shedding snow. Joe Patroni had already slipped off his parka and was
strapping himself into the left seat.
"What's your name, son?"
"Rolling, sir."
Patroni chuckled. "That's what we're trying to get this airplane doin'.
Maybe you're an omen."
As the mechanic removed his own parka and slid into the right seat,
Patroni looked through the window behind his left shoulder. Outside, the
boarding ramp was being trundled clear.
The interphone chimed, and Patroni answered. The foreman, Ingram, was
calling from below. "Ready to start when you are."
Joe Patroni glanced sideways. "All set, son?"
The mechanic nodded.
"Number three starter switch-ground start."
The mechanic snapped a switch; Patroni ordered on interphone, "Pressurize
the manifold!"
From a power cart below, air under pressure whined. The maintenance chief
moved a start level to "idle"; the young mechanic, monitoring
instruments, reported, "Light-up on number three." The engine note became
a steady roar.
In smooth succession, engines four, two, and one followed.
On interphone, Ingram's voice was diminished by a background of wind and
jet whine. "Power cart's clear. So's everything else down here."
"Okay," Patroni shouted back. "Disconnect interphone, and get the hell
clear yourself."
He told his cockpit companion, "Sit tight, son, and hang on." The
maintenance chief shifted his cigar, which contrary to regulations he had
lighted a.few minutes earlier, so that it was now jauntily in a corner
of his mouth. Then, with chunky fingers spread, he eased the four main
throttles forward.
With power at midpoint, the clamor of all four engines grew.

Ahead of the aircraft, in the snow, they could see a ground crewman with
raised, lighted signal wands. Patroni grinned, "If we come out fast, I hope
that guy's a good runner."
All brakes were off, flaps slightly down to engender lift. Tbe mechanic
held the control yoke back. Patroni worked the rudder controls alternately,
hoping by sideways strain to help the airplane forward.
Glancing left, he saw Mel Bakersfeld's car was still in position. From an
earlier calculation, Joe Patroni knew there could be only minutes-perhaps
less than a minute-lef t.
Now, power was past three quarters. From the highpitched note of engines,
he could tell it was more power than the A6reo-Mexican captain had used
during the earlier attempt to get free. Vibration told why. Normally, at
this setting, the airplane would be unimpeded, bowling fast down a runway.
Because it was not, it was shaking severely, with every portion of its
upper area straining forward, resisting the anchoring effect of the wheels
below. The airplane's inclination to stand on its nose was unmistakable.
The mechanic glanced uneasily sideways.
Patroni saw the glance and grunted. "She'd better come out now, or she's a
dead duck."
But the aircraft was not moving. Obstinately, as it had for hours, and
through two earlier attempts, it was remaining stuck.
In the hope of rocking the wheels free, Patroni slackened engine power,
then increased it.
Still the aircraft failed to move.
Joe Patroni's cigar, moist from previous chewing, had gone out.
Disgustedly, he flung it down and reached for another. His breast pocket
was empty; the cigar had been his last.
He swore, and returned his right hand to the throttles. Moving them still
farther forward, he snarled, "Come out! Come out, you son of a bitch!"
"Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic warned. "She won't take much more."
Abruptly, the overhead radio speakers came alive. The tower chief's voice.
"Joe Patroni, aboard A6reo-

Mexican. This is ground control. We have a message from Mr. Bakersfeld:
'There is no more time. Stop all engines.' Repeat-stop all engines."
Glancing out, Patroni saw the plows and graders were already moving. They
wouldn't close in, he knew, until the aircraft engines were stopped. But
he remembered Mel's warniDg-. When the tower tells us we're out of time,
there'll be no argument.
He thought: Who's arguing?
The radio again, urgently: "Joe Patroni, do you read? Acknowledge."
"Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic shouted. "Do you hear? We have to shut down!"
Patroni shouted back, "Can't hear a danin thing, son. Guess there's too
much noise."
As any seasoned maintenance man knew, you always had a minute more than
the panic-prone sales types in the front office said you had.
In the worst way, though, he needed a cigar. Suddenly Joe Patroni
remembered-hours ago, Mel Bakersfeld bet him a box of cigars he couldn't
get this airplane free tonight.
He called across the cockpit, "I gotta stake in this, too. Let's go for
broke." In a single, swift motion he shoved the throttles forward to
their limit.
The din and vibration had seemed great before; now they were
overwhelming. The airplane shuddered as if it might fall apart. Joe
Patroni kicked the rudder pedals hard again.
Around the cockpit, engine warning lights flashed on. Afterward, the
mechanic described the effect as "like a pinball machine at Vegas."
Now, alarm in his voice, he called, "Exhaust gas temperature seven
hundred."
The radio speakers were still emitting orders, including something about
Patroni getting clear himself. He supposed he would have to. IFEs hand
tensed to close the throttles.
Suddenly the airplane shifted forward. At first, it moved slowly. Then,
with startling speed, they were hurtling toward the taxiway. The mechanic
shouted a

warning. As Patroni snatched back all four throttles, he commandcd, "Haps
up!" Glancing below and ahead, both men had an impression of blurred
figures running.
Fifty feet from the taxiway, they were still moving fast. Unless turned
promptly, the airplane would cross the hard surface and roll into piled
snow on the other side. As he felt the tires reach pavement, Patroni ap-
plied left brakes hard and slammed open the two starboard throttles.
Brakes and engines responded, and the aircraft swung sharply left, in a
ninety-degree arc. Halfway around, he slid back the two throttles and ap-
plied all brakes together. The A6reo-Mexican 707 rolled forward briefly,
then slowed and halted.
Joe Patroni grinned. They had stopped with the aircraft parked neatly,
in the center of the taxiway paralleling runway three zero.
The runway, two hundred feet away, was no longer blocked.

In Mel Bakersfeld's car, on the runway, Tanya cried, "He's done it! He's
done it!"
Beside her, Mel was already radioing the Snow Desk, ordering plows and
graders to get clear.
Seconds earlier, Mel had been calling angrily to the tower, demanding for
the third time that Joe Patroni stop engines immediately. Mel had been
assured the messages were relayed, but Patroni ignored them. The heat of
Mel's anger still remained; even now, he could cause Joe Patroni serious
trouble for the latter's failure to obey, or even acknowledge, an airport
management order in a matter of urgency and safety. But Mel knew he
wouldn't. Patroni had gotten away with it, and no one with sense
quarreled with that kind of success. Also, Mel knew, after tonight there
would be one more item to add to the Patroni legend.
The plows and graders were already moving.
Mel switched his radio back to tower frequency. "Mobile one to ground
control. Obstructing aircraft has been moved from runway three zero.
Vehicles following. I am inspecting for debris."
Mel shone a spotlight from his car over the runway

surface, Tanya and the reporter, Tomlinson, peered with him. Sometimes
incidents like tonight's resulted in work crews leaving tools or debris-a
hazard to aircraft taking off or landing. The light showed nothing beyond an
irregular surface of snow.
The last of the snowplows was turning off at the nearest intersection. Mel
accelerated and followed. All three in the car were emotionally drained
from tensions of the past few minutes, but aware that a greater cause for
tension was still to come.
As they swung left, behind the plows, Mel reported, "Runway three zero
clear and open."

16

Trans Ameiica Flight Two, The Golden Argosy, was ten miles out, in cloud, at
ftfteen hundred feet.
Anson Harris, after another brief respite, had resumed flying.
The Lincoln International approach controller-with a voice vaguely familiar
to Vernon Demerest, though he hadn't stopped to think about it-had guided
them thus far on a series of courses, with gentle turns as they descended.
They had been, both pilots realized, skillfully positioned so that a final
commitment toward either of the two possible runways could be made without
major maneuvering. But the commdtment would have to be made at any moment.
Tension of the pilots grew as that moment approached.
A few minutes earlier, Second Officer Cy Jordan had returned to the flight
deck, on Demerest's orders, to prepare an estimate of gross landing weight,
allowing for the fuel they had used, and that remaining. Now, having done
everything else necessary at his ffight engineer's

position, Jordan bad gone back to his emergency landing station in the
forward passenger compartment.
Anson Harris, aided by Demerest, had already gone through emergency trim
procedures in preparation for landing with their jammed stabilizer.
As they finished, Dr. Compagno appeared briefly behind them. "I thought
you'd like to know-your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is holding her own. If
we can get her to a hospital soon, I'm fairly sure she'll come through."
Demerest, finding it hard to conceal his sudden emotion, had resorted to
not speaking. It was Anson Harris who balf-turned and acknowledged,
"Thank you, Doctor. We've only a few minutes to go."
In both passenger cabins, all precautions which could be taken were
complete. The injured, with the exception of Gwen Meighen, had been
strapped in seats. Two of the doctors had stationed themselves on either
side of Gwen, ready to support her as they landed. Other passengers had
been shown how to brace themselves for what might prove an exceptionally
heavy landing, with unknown consequences.
The old lady stowaway, Mrs. Quonsett, a little frightened at last, was
tightly clutching the hand of her oboe player friend. Weariness, too, was
creeping over her from the exertions of an exceedingly full day.
A short time earlier her spirits had been buoyed by a brief message from
Captain Demerest, relayed through a stewardess. The captain thanked her,
the stewardess said, for what she had done to help; since Mrs. Quonsett
had kept her part of their bargain, after they landed Captain Demerest
would keep his by arranging passage for her to New York . How wonderful
of that dear man, Ada Ouonsett thought, to remember that when he had so
much else to think of! . . . But now she wondered: would she be around
to make the trip at all?
Judy, the niece of Customs Inspector Standish, bad once more been holding
the baby whose parents were in the seats beside her. Now she passed the
child back to its mother. The baby-least concerned of anyone aboard the
airplane-was asleep.
On the flight deck, in the right-hand seat, Vernon Dem-

erest checked the weight information the second officer had given him
against a weight-airspeed plaque on the pilots' instrument panel. He
announced tersely, "Bug speed 150 knots."
It was the speed at which they must pass over the airfield boundary,
allowing both for weight and the jammed stabilizer.
Harris nodded. Looking glum, he reached out to set a warning pointer on
his airspeed indicator. Demerest did the same.
Even on the longest runway their landing would be risky.
The speed-more than 170 miles per hour-was diabolically fast for landing.
Both pilots knew that it would mean an exceptionally long run after
touchdown, with slow deceleration because of their heavy weight. Thus
their weight became a dual liability. Yet to approach at anything less
than the speed which Demerest had just computed would be suicidal; the
aircraft would stall, and plummet earthward out of control.
Demerest reached for his radio mike.
Before he could transmit, the voice of Keith Bakersfeld announced, "Trans
America Two, turn right on heading two eight five. Runway three zero is
open."
"Jesus C hrist!" Dernerest said. "And about time!"
He keyed his mike and acknowledged.
Together, both pilots ran through a pre-landing check list.
There was a "thud" through the airplane as their landing gear went down.
"I'm going in low," Harris said, "and we'll touch down early. We're still
going to need every bit of real estate they have down there."
Demerest grunted agreement. He was peering ahead, straining to penetrate
cloud and darkness, to catch a glimpse of the airport lights which must
be visible soon. His thoughts, despite his own outward calm, were on the
damage to the plane. They still didn't know exactly how bad it was, or
how it might have worsened during the rough flight in. There was that
damned great hole; then there would be the heavy, fast landing … God!-
the whole tail assembly might come ojy . . . If it does,

Dernerest thought, at a hundred and fifty knots we've had it . . . That
son-of-a-bitch who had set obF the bomb! A pity he had died! Dernerest
would like to have his hands on him now, to personally rip out his
stinking life …
Beside him, Anson Harris, making an Instrument Landing System approach,
increased the rate of descent from seven hundred to eight hundred feet
per minute.
Dernerest wished desperately he were flying himself. With anyone else but
Harris-with a younger or less senior captain-Demerest would have taken
full command. As it was, he couldn't fault Harris for a thing … He
hoped the landing would be the same way … His thoughts went back to the
passenger cabin. Gwen, we're almost in! Keep on living! His conviction
about their child, that he and Gwen and Sarah would work out something,
was as strong as ever.
On radio, Keith Bakersfeld's voice reported, "Trans America Two, your
course and descent look fine. There is medium to light snow on runway.
Wind northwest, thirty knots. You are number one to land."
Seconds later they emerged from cloud to see runway lights dead ahead.
" Lincoln approach control," Demerest radioed, "we have the runway in
sight."
"Roger, Flight Two." Relief in the controller's voice was unmistakable.
"The tower clears you to land; monitor their frequency when ready. Good
luck, and out."
Vernon Dernerest clicked his mike button twice-an airman's shorthand
"thank you."
Anson Harris ordered crisply, "Landing lights on. Fifty degrees flap."
Demerest complied.
They were coming down fast.
Harris warned, "I may need help with rudder."
"Right." Dernerest set his feet on the rudder pedals. When speed came
off, the rudder-because of the destroyed boost mechanism-would be stiff,
like a car's power steering which had failed, only more so. After
landing, both pilots might need to exert force, together, to maintain
directional control.
They zoomed over the airfield edge, runway lights

strung ahead like strands of converging pearls. On either side were piled
banks of snow; beyond them, darkness. Harris had made his approach as low
as he dared; the nearness to the ground revealed their exceptional speed.
To both pilots, the mile and three quarters of runway in front had never
looked shorter.
Harris flared out, leveling the aircraft, and closed all four throttles.
The jet thrum lessened; an urgent, shrieking wind replaced it. As they
crossed the runway's edge, Vernon Demerest had a blurred impression of
clustered emergency vehicles which would, he knew, follow them down the
runway. He thought: We damned well might need them! Hang on, Gwen!
They were still floating, their speed scarcely diminished.
Then the aircraft was down. Heavily. Still traveling fast.
Swiftly, Harris raised wing spoilers and slammed thrust reverse levers
upward. With a roar, the jet engines reversed themselves, their
force-acting as a brake –now exerted in an opposite direction to the
airplane's travel.
They had used three quarters of the runway and were slowing, but not
enough.
Harris called, "Right rudder!" The aircraft was veering to the left. With
Demerest and Harris shoving together, they maintained direction. But the
runway's forward limit-with piled snow and a cavern of darkness
beyond-was coming up fast.
Anson Harris was applying toe brakes hard. Metal was straining, rubber
screaming. Still the darkness neared. Then they were slowing . . .
gradually
slowing more …
Flight Two came to rest three feet from the runway's end.

17

By the radar room clock, Keith Bakersfeld could see that another half hour
of his shift remained. He didn't care.
He pushed back his chair from the radar console, unplugged his headset,
and stood up. He looked around him, knowing it was for the last time.
"Hey!" Wayne Tevis said. "What gives?"
"Here," Keith told him. "Take this. Somebody else may need it." He thrust
the headset at Tevis, and went out.
Keith knew he should have done it years ago.
He felt a strange lightheadedness, almost a sense of relief. In the
corridor outside he wondered why.
It was not because he had guided in Flight Two; he bad no illusions about
that. Keith had performed competently, but anyone else on duty could have
done as well, or better. Nor-as he had known in advance-did anything done
tonight wipe out, or counterbalance, what had gone before.
It didn't matter, either, that he had overcome his mental block of ten
minutes ago. Keith hadn't cared at the time; he simply wanted out.
Nothing that had happened since had changed his mind.
Perhaps, lie thought, there had been a purging in his own sudden anger
of a few minutes ago, in the admission, never faced before even in
private thoughts, of how much he hated aviation, and always had. Now,
fifteen years late, he wished he had faced the fact long ago.
He entered the controllers' locker room, with its wooden benches and
cluttered notice board. Keith opened his locker and put on his outdoor
clothes. There were a few personal things on the locker shelves; he
ignored them. All he wanted was the color snapshot of Natalie; he peeled
it carefully from the inside surface of

the metal door . . . Natalie in a bikini; laughing; her impudent pixyish
face, and freckles; her hair streaming … When lie looked at it, he
wanted to cry. Behind the photograph was her note he bad treasured:

I'm glad we had our ration With love and passion.

Keith pocketed both. Someone else could clear the other things out. There
was nothing he wanted to remind hira of this place-ever.
He stopped,
He stood there, realizing that without intending to, he had come to a new
decision. He wasn't sure of everything the decision involved, or how it
might seem tomorrow, or even if he could live with it beyond then. If he
couldn't live with it, there was still an escape clause; a way out-the
drugstore pillbox in his pocket.
For tonight, the main thing was: he was not going to the O'Hagan Inn. He
was going home.
But there was one thing he knew: If there was to be a future, it must be
removed from aviation. As others who had quit air traffic control before
him had discovered, that could prove the hardest thing of all.
And even if that much could be overcome-face it now, Keith told
himself-there would be times when he would be reminded of the past.
Reminded of Lincoln International; of Leesburg; of what had happened at
both places. Whatever else you escaped, if you had a whole mind, there
was no escaping memory. The memory of the Redfern family who had died …
of little Valerie Redfern . . . would never leave him.
Yet memory could adapt-couldn't 0-to time, to circumstance, to the
reality of living here and now. The Redferns were dead. The Bible said:
Let the dead bury their dead. What had happened, was done.
Keith wondered if . . . from now on he could remember the Redferns with
sadness, but do his best to make the living-Natahe, his own children-his
first concern.
He wasn't sure that it would work. He wa&t sure

that he had the moral or the physical strength. It had been a long time
since he was sure of anything. But he could try.
He took the tower elevator down.
Outside, on his way to the FAA parking lot, Keith stopped. On sudden
impulse, knowing he might regret it later, he took the pillbox from his
pocket and emptied its contents into the snow.

18

From his car, which he bad parked on the nearby taxiway after quitting
runway three zero, Mel Bakersfeld could see that the pilots of Trans America
Flight Two were wasting no time in taxiing to the terminal. The aircraft's
lights, now halfway across the airfield, were still visible, moving fast. On
his radio, switched to ground control, Mel could hear other flights being
halted at taxiway and runway intersections to let the damaged airliner pass.
The injured were stflI aboard. Flight Two had been instructed to bead
directly for gate forty-seven where medical help, ambulances, and company
staff were waiting.
Mel watched the aircraft's lights diminish, and merge with the galaxy of
terminal lights beyond.
Airport emergency vehicles, which had not after all been required, were
dispersing from the runway area.
Tanya and the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson, were both on their way back to
the terminal. They were driving with Joe Patroni, who had handed over the
A6reo-Mexican 707 for someone else to taxi to the hangars.
Tanya wanted to be at gate forty-seven for the disembarking of passengers
from Flight Two. It was likely she would be needed.

Before leaving, she had asked Mel quietly, "Are you still coming home?"
"If it isn't too late," he said, "I'd like to."
He watched while Tanya pushed a strand of red hair back from her face.
She had looked at him with her direct, clear eyes and smiled. "It's not
too late."
They agreed to meet at the main terminal entrance in three quarters of
an hour.
Tomlinson's purpose was to interview Joe Patroni, and after that the crew
of Trans America Flight Two. The crew-and Patroni, no doubt-would be
heroes within a few hours. ne dramatic story of the flight's peril and
survival, Mel suspected, would eclipse his own pronouncements on the more
mundane subject of the airport's problems and deficiencies.
Though not entirely, perhaps. Tomlinson, to whom Mel had entrusted his
opinions, was a thoughtful, intelligent reporter who might decide to link
present dramatics with the equally serious long-term view.
The A6reo-Mexican 707, Mel saw, was now being moved away. The airplane
appeared undamaged, but would undoubtedly be washed down and inspected
thoroughly before resuming its interrupted flight to Acapulco .
The assortment of service vehicles which had stayed with the aircraft
during its ordeal by mud were following.
There was no reason for Mel not to go himself. He would-in a moment or
two; but for the second time tonight he found the airfield's loneliness,
its closeness to the elemental part of aviation, a stimulus to thought.
It was here, a few hours ago, Mel remembered, that he had had an
instinct, a premonition, of events moving toward some disastrous end.
Well, in a way they had. The disaster had happened, though through good
fortune it had been neither complete, nor had the airport's facilities-or
lack of them-been directly responsible.
But the disaster could have involved the airport; and the airport in turn
might have caused complete catastrophe-through inadequacies which Mel had
foreseen and had argued, vainly, to correct.
For Lincoln International was obsolescent.

Obsolescent, Mel knew, despite its good management, and gleaming glass and
chrome; despite its air traffic density, its record-breaking passenger
volume, its Niagara of air freight, its expectations of even more of
everything, and its boastful title, "Aviation Crossroads of the World."
The airport was obsolescent because-as had happened so often in the short
six decades of modem aviation history-air progress had eclipsed prediction.
Once more, expert prognosticators had been wrong, the visionary dreamers
right.
And what was true here was true elsewhere.
Nationwide, worldwide, the story was the same. Much was talked about
aviation's growth, its needs, coming developments in the air which would
provide the lowest cost transportation of people and goods in human
history, the chance these gave the nations of the world to know each other
better, in peace, and to trade more freely. Yet little on the ground-in
relation to the problem's size-had been done.
Well, one voice alone would not change everything, but each voice which
spoke with knowledge and conviction was a help. It had come to Mel within
the past few hours-he was not sure why or how-that he intended to continue
speaking out the way he had tonight, the way he hadn't for so long.
Tomorrow-or rather, later today-he would begin by summoning, for Monday
morning, an emergency special meeting of the Board of Airport
Commissioners. When the Board met, he would urge an immediate commitment to
build a new runway paralleling three zero. ,
The experience of tonight had strencqhened, as nothing else could, the
arguments for increasing runway capacity which Mel had presented long ago.
But this time, he determined, he would make a fight of it-with plain, blunt
words, warning of catastrophe if public safety were given lip service only,
while vital operational needs were iQnored or shelved. He would see to it
that press and public opinion were marshaled on his sidethe kind of
pressure which downtown politicians understood.
After new runways, other projects, so far only talked

about or hoped for, must be 'Pressed on; among thernan entirely new
terminal and runway complex; more imaginative ground flow of people and
freight; smaller, satellite fields for the vertical and short takeoff
aircraft which were coming soon.
Either Lincolh International was in the jet age, or it wasn't; if it was,
it must keep pace far better than it had.
It was not, Mel thought, as if airports were an indulgence or some civic
luxury. Almost all were self-sustaining, generating wealth and high
employment.
Not all the battles for ground-air progress would be won; they never
were. But some of them could be, and some of what was said and done
here-because of Mel's stature in airport management-could spill over
into national, even international, arenas.
If it did, so much the better! The English poet John Donne, Mel
remembered, had once written: No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. No airport was
an island either; those which called themselves International should
employ the kind of thinking to justify their name. Perhaps, working with
others, Met could help to show them how.
People who hadn't heard from Mel Bakersfeld for a while might quickly
learn that he was still around.
And intensive work, a resumption of more of his old industry-wide
interests, might help with personal problems by keeping his mind
occupied. Met hoped so, anyway. The thought was an abrupt reminder that
sometime soon-perhaps tomorrow-he would have to call Cindy and arrange
to move out his clothes and personal belongings. It would be an unhappy
process which he hoped the girls, Roberta and Libby, would not be around
to see. To begin with, Mel supposed, he would move into a hotel until he
had time to arrange an apartment of his own.
But more than ever be knew that Cindy's and his own decision for divorce
bad been inevitable. Both of them had known it; tonight they merely
resolved to remove a facade behind which nothing existed any more.
Neither for themselves nor for the children could anything have been
gained by more delay.

It would still take time, though, to adjust.
And Tanya? Mel was not sure what, if anything, was ahead for them
together. He thought there might be a good deal, but the time for a
commitment-if there was to be one-was not yet. He only knew that tonight,
before this long and complex workday ended, he craved companionship,
warmth, and tenderness; and, of all the friends he possessed, Tanya had
those qualities in greatest measure.
What else, between himself and Tanya, these might lead to would be known
in time.
Mel put his car in gear and swung it toward the perimeter road which
would take him to the terminal. Runway three zero was on his right as he
drove.
Now that the runway was open, he saw, other aircraft were beginning to
use it, arriving in a steady stream despite the lateness. A Convair 880
of TWA swept by and landed. Behind it, half a mfle out, were the landing
lights of another flight approaching. Behind the second, a third was
turning in.
The fact that Mel could see the third set of lights made him aware that
the cloud base had lifted. He noticed suddenly that the snowfall had
stopped; in a few places to the south, patches of sky were clearing. With
relief, he realized the storm was moving on.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ARTHUR HAILEY was born in Luton , England , in 1920. He was a flight
lieutenant in World War 11 and served in the Royal Air Force in the Middle
and Far East .
His two most recent books, Airport and Hotel, have been sensational
bestsellers. His novels are published in all major languages. His plays
have been performed throughout the world on television, and many of his
stories have been made into successful motion pictures.
Mr. Hailey lives in California with his wife and three children.