Airport

or impotently drifting backward. In aviation, there was never a status
quo.
There was another factor.
As well as the airport's future, Mel's personal future was at stake.
Whichever way airport policies veered, so would his own prestige advance
or lessen in places where it counted most.
Only a short time ago, Mel Bakersfeld had been a national spokesman for
ground logistics of aviation, had been touted as the rising young genius
in aviation management. Then, abruptly, a single, calamitous event had
wrought a change. Now, four years later, the future was no longer clear,
and there were doubts and questioning about Mel Bakersfeld, in others'
minds as well as in his own.
The event which caused the change was the John F. Kennedy assassination.
"Here's the end of the runway, Mr. Bakersfeld. You riding back with us,
or what?" The voice of the Snowblast driver broke in on Mel's reverie.
"Hm?"
The man repeated his question. Ahead of them, once more, warning lights
were flashing on, the Conga Line showing. Half the width of a runway was
cleared at one time. Now, the Line would reverse itself and go back the
way it had come, clearing the remaining portion. Allowing for stops and
starts, it took forty-five minutes to an hour to plow and sand a single
runway.
"No," Mel said. "I'll get off here."
"Right, sir." The driver directed a signal light at the assistant
foreman's car which promptly swung out of line. A few moments later, as
Mel clambered down, his own car was waiting. From other plows and trucks,
crews were descending and hurrying to the coffee wagon.
Driving back toward the terminal, Mel radioed the Snow Desk, confirming
to Danny Farrow that runway one seven, left, would be usable shortly.
Then, switching to ATC ground control, he turned the volume low, the
subdued, level voices a background to his thoughts.

In the Snowblast cab he had been reminded of the event which, of all
others he remembered, had struck with greatest impact.
It had been four years ago.
He thought, startled, was it really that long ago?four years since the
gray November afternoon when, dazedly, he had pulled the p.a. microphone
across his desk toward him-the microphone, rarely used, which overrode
all others in the terminal-and cutting in on a flight arrival bulletin,
had announced to concourses which swiftly hushed, the shattering news
which seconds earlier had flashed from Dallas.
His eyes, as he spoke then, had been on the photograph on the facing wall
across his office, the photograph whose inscription read: To my friend
Mel Bakersfeld, concerned, as I am, with attenuating the surly bonds of
earth-John F. Kennedy.
The photograph still remained, as did many memories.
The memories began, for Mel, with a speech he had made in Washington,
D.C.
At the time, as well as airport general manager, he had been president
of the Airport Operators Councilthe youngest leader, ever, of that small
but influential body linking major airports of the world. AOC head-
quarters was in Washington, and Mel flew there frequently.
His speech was to a national planning congress.
Aviation, Mel Bakersfeld had pointed out, was the only truly successful
international undertaking. It transcended ideological boundaries as well
as the merely geographic. Because it was a means of intermingling diverse
populations at ever-diminishing cost, it offered the most practical means
to world understanding yet devised by man.
Even more significant was aerial commerce. Movement of freight by air,
already mammoth in extent, was destined to be greater still. The new,
giant jet airplanes, to be in service by the early 1970s, would be the
fastest and cheapest cargo carriers in human history; within a decade,
oceangoing ships might be dry-dock museum

pieces, pushed out of business in the same way that passenger airplanes
had clobbered the Queen Mary and Elizabeth. 'rhe effect could be a new,
worldwide argosy of trade, with prosperity for now impoverished nations.
Technologically, Mel reminded his audience, the airbome segment of
aviation offered these things, and more, within the lifetimes of today's
middle-aged people.
Yet, be had continued, while airplane designers wove the stuff of dreams
into fabrics of reality, facilities on the ground remained, for the most
part, products of shortsightedness or misguided baste. Airports, runway
systems, terminals, were geared to yesterday, with scant –if
any-provision for tomorrow; what was lost sight of, or ignored, was the
juggernaut speed of aviation's progress. Airports were set up piecemeal,
as individually as city balls, and often with as small imagination.
Usually, too much was spent on showplace terminals, too little on
operating areas. Coordinated, high-level planning, either national or
international, was non-existent.
At local levels, where politicians were apathetic about problems of
ground access to airports, the situation was as bad, or worse.
"We have broken the sound barrier," Mel declared, "but not the ground
barrier."
He listed specific areas for study and urged intemational planning-U.S.
led and presidentially inspiredfor aviation on the ground.
The speech was accorded a standing ovation and was widely reported. It
produced approving nods from such diverse sources as The Times of London,
Pravda, and The Wall Street Journal.
The day after the speech, Mel was invited to the White House.
The meeting with the President had gone well. It had been a relaxed,
good-humored session in the private study on the White House second
floor. J.F.K., Mel found, shared many of his own ideas.
Subsequently, there were other sessions, some of them "brain trust"
affairs involving Kennedy aides,

usually when the Administration was considering aviation matters. After
several such occasions, with informal aftermaths, Mel was at home in the
White House, and less surprised than he had been at first to find himself
there at all. As time went on, he drifted into one of those easygoing
relationships which J.F.K. encouraged among those with expertise to offer
him.
It was a year or so after their first encounter that the President
sounded Mel out about beading the Federal Aviation Agency. (It was an
Agency then, an Administration later.) Sometime during the Kennedy second
term, which everyone assumed would be automatic, the incumbent 17AA
Administrator, Halaby, would move on to other things. How did Mel feel
about implementing, from within, some of the measures he had advocated
from without? Mel had replied that he was very interested indeed. He made
it clear that if an offer were made, his answer would be yes.
Word filtered out, not from Mel, but through others who had had it from
the top. Met was "in"-a duespaid member of the inner circle. His
prestige, high before, went higher still. The Airport Operators Council
re-elected him president. His own airport commissioners voted him a
handsome raise. Barely in his late thirties, he was considered the Childe
Roland of aviation management.
Six months later, John F. Kennedy made his fateful Texas journey.
Like others, Mel was first stunned, then later wept. Only later still,
did it dawn on him that the assassin's bullets had ricocheted onto the
lives of others, his own among them. He discovered he was no longer "in"
in Washington. Najeeb Halaby did, in fact, move on from FAA-to a senior
vice-presidency of Pan Americanbut Mel did not succeed him. By then,
power had shifted, influences waned. Mel's name, he later learned, was
not even on President Johnson's short list for the FAA appointment.
Mel's second tenure as AOC president ran out uneventfully and another
bright young man succeeded him. Met's trips to Washington ceased. His
public ap-

pearances became limited to local ones, and, in a way, he found the change
to be a relief. His own responsibilities at Lincoln International had
already increased as air traffic proliferated beyond most expectations. He
became intensely occupied with planning, coupled with efforts to persuade
the Board of Airport Commissioners to his own viewpoints. There was plenty
to think about, including troubles at home. His days and weeks and months
were full.
And yet, there was a sense that time and opportunity had passed him by.
Others were aware of it. Unless something dramatic occurred, Mel surmised,
his career might continue, and eventually end, precisely where he was.
"Tower to mobile one-what is your position?" The radio enjoinder broke
through Mel's thoughts, returning him abruptly to the present.
He turned up the radio volume and reported. By now, he was nearing the main
passenger terminal, its lights becoming clearer, despite the still heavily
falling snow. The aircraft parking areas, he observed, were as fully
occupied as when he left, and there was still a line of arriving aircraft
waiting for gate positions to be vacated.
"Mobile one, hold until the Lake Central Nord crosses ahead of you, then
follow it in."
"This is mobile one. Roger."
A few minutes later, Met eased his car into the terminal basement parking
area.
Near his parking stall was a locked box with an airport telephone. He used
one of his passkeys to open the box, and dialed the Snow Desk. Danny Farrow
answered. Was there any fresh news, Met inquired, about the mired
A6reo-Mexican jet?
"Negative," Danny said. "And the tower chief said to tell you that not
being able to use runway three zero is still slowing traffic fifty percent.
Also, he's getting more phone complaints from Meadowood every time there's
a takeoff over there."
Mel said grimly, "Meadowood will have to suffer." Community meeting or not,
there was nothing he could

do to eliminate overhead noise for the time being. The most important thing
at the moment was to reduce the lag in operations. "Where's Joe Patroni
now?"
"Same place. Still held up."
"Can he make it for sure?"
"TWA says so. He has a phone in his car, and they've been in touch."
"As soon as Joe gets here," Mel instructed, "I want to be notified.
Wherever I am."
"That'll be downtown, I guess."
Mel hesitated. There was no reason, he supposed, why he need remain at the
airport any longer tonight. Yet again, unaccountably, he had the same sense
of foreboding which had disturbed him on the airfield. He remembered his
conversation earlier with the tower watch chief, the line of waiting
aircraft on the ramp apron outside. He made a spontaneous decision.
"No, I won't be downtown. We need that runway badly, and I'm not leaving
until I know positively that Patroni is out there on the field, in charge."
"In that case," Danny said, "I suggest you call your wife right now. Here's
the number she's at."
Mel wrote it down, then depressed the receiver rest and dialed the downtown
number. He asked for Cindy, and after a brief wait, heard her voice say
sharply, "Mel, why aren't you here?"
"I'm sorry, I was held up. There've been problems at the airport. It's a
pretty big storm . .
"Damn you, get down here fast!"
From the fact that his wife's voice was low, Mel deduced there were others
within hearing. Just the same, she managed to convey a surprising amount of
venom.
Mel sometimes tried to associate the voice of Cindy nowadays with the Cindy
he remembered before their marriage fifteen years ago. She had been a
gentler person then, it seemed to him. In fact, her gentleness had been one
of the things which appealed to Mel when they first met in San Francisco,
he on leave from the Navy and Korea. Cindy had been an actress at the time,
though in a minor way because the career she had hoped for had not worked
out, and clearly wasn't going

to. She had had a succession of diminishingly small parts in summer stock
and television, and afterward, in a moment of frankness, admitted that
marriage had been a welcome release from the whole thing.
Years later, that story changed a little, and it became a favorite gambit
of Cindy's to declare that she had sacrificed her career and probable
stardom because of Mel. More recently, though, Cindy didn't like her past
as an actress being mentioned at all. That was because she had read in
Town and Country that actresses were seldom, if ever, included in The
Social Register, and addition of her own name to the Register was
something Cindy wanted very much indeed.
"I'M Coming downtown to join you just as soon as I can," Mel said.
Cindy snapped, "That isn't good enough. You should be here already. You
knew perfectly well that tonight was important to me, and a week ago you
made a definite promise."
"A week ago I didn't know we were going to have the biggest storm in six
years. Right now we've a runway out of use, there's a question of airport
safety . . ."
"You've people working for you, haven't you? Or are the ones you've
chosen so incompetent they can't be left alone?"
Mel said irritably, "They're highly competent. But I get paid to take
some responsibility, too."
"It's a pity you can't act responsibly to me. Time and again I make
important social arrangements which you enjoy demolishing."
Listening, as the words continued, Mel sensed that Cindy was getting
close to boiling point. Without any effort, he could visualize her now,
five feet six of imperious energy in her highest heels, clear blue eyes
flashing, and her blonde coiffed head tilted back in that damnably
attractive way she had when she was angry. That was one reason, Mel
supposed, why, in their early years of marriage, his wife's temper
outbursts seldom dismayed him. The more heated she became, it always
seemed, the more desirable she grew. At such moments, he had invariably
let his eyes rove upward, beginning w

her ankles-not hurriedly, because Cindy possessed extraordinarily attractive
ankles and legs; in fact, better than those of most other women Mel knew-to
the rest of her which was just as proportionate and physically appealing.
In the past, when his eyes had made their appreciative assessment, some
two-way physical communion sprang into being, prompting each to reach out,
to touch one another, impulsively, hungrily. The result was predictable.
Invariably, the origin of Cindy's anger was forgotten in a wave of
sensuality which engulfed them. Cindy had an exciting, insistent savagery,
and in their lovemaking would demand, Hurt me, goddam you, hurt me!" At the
end, they would be spent and drained, so that picking up the skein of a
quarrel was more than either had the wish or energy to do.
It was, of course, a way of shelving, rather than resolving, differences
which-Mel realized, even early on –were fundamental. As the years passed,
and passion lessened, accumulated differences became more sharply accented.
Eventually, they ceased entirely to use sex as a panacea and, in the past
year or so, physical intimacy of any kind had become more and more
occasional. Cindy, in fact, whose bodily appetites had always needed satis-
fying whatever the state of mind between them, appeared in recent months to
have become indifferent altogether. Mel had wondered about that. Had his
wife taken a lover? It was possible, and Mel supposed he ought to care. The
sad thing was, it seemed easier not to be concerned.
Yet there were still moments when the sight or sound of Cindy in her
willful anger could stir him physicafly, arousing old desires. He had that
feeling now as he listened to her excoriating voice on the telephone.
When he was able to cut in, he said, "It isn't true that I enjoy
demolishing your arrangements. Most of the time I go along with what you
want, even though I don't think the things we go to are all that important.
What I
Z,
would enjoy are a few more evenings at home with the children."

"That's a lot of crap," Cindy said, "and you know it." He felt himself
tense, gripping the telephone more tightly. Then he conceded to himself:
perhaps the last remark was true, to an extent. Earlier this evening he
had been reminded of the times he had stayed at the airport when he could
have gone home-merely because he wanted to avoid another fight with Cindy.
Roberta and Libby had got left out of the reckoning then, as children did,
he supposed, when marriages went sour. He should not have mentioned them.
But apart from that, tonight was different. He ought to stay on at the
airport, at least until it became known for sure what was happening about
the blocked runway.
"Look," Mel said, "let's make one thing clear. I haven't told you this
before, but last year I kept some notes. You wanted me to come to
fifty-seven of your charitable whingdings. Out of that I managed
forty-five which is a whole lot more than I'd attend from choice, but it
isn't a bad score."
"You bastard! I'm not a ball game where you keep a scorecard. I'm your
wife."
Mel said sharply, "Take it easy!" He was becoming angry, himself. "Also,
in case you don't know it, you're raising your voice. Do you want all
those nice people around to know what kind of a heel you have for a
husband?"
"I don't give a goddam!" But she said it softly, just the same.
"I do know you're my wife, which is why I intend to get down there just
as soon as I can." What would happen, Mel wondered, if he could reach out
and touch Cindy now? Would the old magic work? He decided not. "So save
me a place, and tell the waiter to keep my soup warm. Also, apologize and
explain why I'm late. I presume some of the people there have heard there
is an airport." A thought struck him. "Incidentally, what's the occasion
tonight?"
"I explained last week."
"Tell me again."
"It's a publicity party-cocktails and dinner-to promote the costume ball
which is being given next

month for the Archidona Children's Relief Fund. The press is here. They'll
be taking photographs."
Now Me[ knew why Cindy wanted him to hurry. With him there, she stood a
better chance of being in the photographs-and on tomorrow's newspaper
social pages.
"Most other committee members," Cindy insisted, "have their husbands here
already."
"But not all?"
"I said most."
"And you did say the Archidona Relief Fund?"
"Yes .
"Which Arcbidona? There are two. One's in Ecuador, the other in Spain."
At college, maps and geography had fascinated Mel, and he had a retentive
memory.
For the first time, Cindy hesitated. Then she said testily, "What does
it matter? This isn't the time for stupid questions."
Mel wanted to laugh out loud. Cindy didn't know. As usual, she had chosen
to work for a charity because of who was involved, rather than what.
He said maticiously, "How many letters do you expect to get from this
one?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, yes, you do."
To be considered for listing in The Social Register, a new aspirant
needed eight sponsoring letters from people whose names already appeared
there. At the last count Mel had heard, Cindy had collected four.
"By God, Mel, if you say anything-tonigbt or any other time . . ."
"Will the letters be free ones, or do you expect to pay for them like
those other two?" He was aware of having an advantage now. It happened
very rarely.
Cindy said indignantly, "That's a filthy allegation. It's impossible to
buy your way in. . ."
"Nuts!" Mel said. "I get the canceled checks from our joint account.
Remember?"
There was a silence. Then Cindy asserted, low-voiced and savagely,
"Listen to me! You'd better get here to-

night, and soon. If you don't come, or if you do come and embw-rass me by
saying anything of what you did just now, it'll be the end. Do you
understand?"
"I'm not sure that I do." Mel spoke quietly. Instinct cautioned him that
this was an important moment for them both. "Perhaps you'd better tell me
exactly what you mean."
Cindy countered, "You figure it out."
She hung up.

On his way from the parking area to his office, Mel's fury seethed and
grew. Anger had always come to him less quickly than to Cindy. He was the
slow-bum type. But he was burning now.
He was not entirely sure of the focus of his anger. A good deal was
directed at Cindy, but there were other factors, too: His professional
failure, as he saw it, to prepare eflectually for a new era of aviation; a
seeming inability to infuse others any longer with his own convictions;
high hopes, unfulfilled. Somehow, between them all, Mel thought, his
personal and professional lives had become twin testaments to inadequacy.
His marriage was on the rocks, or apparently about to go there; if and when
it did, he would have failed his children, also. At the same time, at the
airport, where he was trustee for thousands who passed through daily in
good faith, all his efforts and persuasion had failed to halt
deterioration. There, the high standards he had worked to build were
eroding steadily.
En route to the executive mezzanine, he encountered no one he knew. It was
just as well. If he had been spoken to, whatever question had been put, be
would have snarled a heated answer. In his office, he peeled off the heavy
outdoor clothing and let it stay on the floor where it fell. He lit a
cigarette. It had an acrid taste, and he stubbed it out. As he crossed to
his desk, be was aware that the pain in his foot had returned, increas-
ingly.
There was a time-it seemed long ago-when on nights like this, if his
wounded foot pained him, he would have gone home, where Cindy would have
in-

sisted he relax. He would have a hot bath first, then after, while he lay
face downward on their bed, she would massaae his back and neck with cool,
firm fingers until pain ebbed out of him. It was unthinkable, of course,
that Cindy would ever do the same thino again; but even if she did, he
doubted that it would work. You could lose communication in other ways
besides the spoken word.
Seated at his desk, Mel put his head in his hands.
As he had done on the airfield earlier, be shivered. Then, abruptly in
the silent office, a telephone bell jangled. For a moment he ignored it.
It rang again, and he realized it was the red alarm system telephone on
a stand beside the desk. In two swift strides he reached it.
"Bakersfeld here."
He heard clicks and more acknowledgments as others came on the line.
"This is Air Traffic Control," the tower chief's voice announced. "We
have an airborne emergency, category three.

9

Keith Bakersfeld, Mel's brother, was a third of the way through his
eight-hour duty watch in the air traffic control radar room.
In radar control, tonight's storm was having a profound effect, though
not a directly physical one. To a spectator, Keith thought, lacking an
awareness of the complex story which a conglomeration of radarscopes was
telling, it might have seemed that the storm, raging immediately outside,
was a thousand miles away.
The radar room was in the control tower, one floor down from the
glass-surrounded eyrie-the tower cab –from which ATC directed aircraft
movement on the

ground and immediate local flying. The radar section's jurisdiction
extended beyond the airport, and radar controllers reached out to bridge
the gap between local control and the nearest ATC regional center. The re-
gional centers-usually miles from any airport-controlled main trunk
airways and traffic coming on and off them.
In contrast to the top portion of the tower, the radar room had no
windows. Day and night, at Lincoln International, ten radar controllers
and supervisors labored in perpetual semidarkness under dim moonglow
lights. Around them, tightly packed equipment-radarscopes, controls,
radio communications panels-lined all four walls. Usually, controllers
worked in shirtsleeves since the temperature, winter or summer, was
maintained at an even seventy degrees to protect the delicate electronic
gear.
The pervading tone in the radar room was calm. However, beneath the
calmness, at all times, was a constant nervous strain. Tonight, the
strain had been added to by the storm and, within the past few minutes,
it had heightened further still. The effect was like stretching an
already tensioned spring.
Cause of the added tension was a signal on a radarscope which, in turn,
had triggered a flashing red light and alarm buzzer in the control room.
The buzzer had now been silenced, but the distinctive radar signal re-
mained. Known as a double blossom, it had flowered on the semidarkened
screen like a tremulous green carnation and denoted an aircraft in
distress. In this case, the aircraft was a U. S. Air Force KC-135, high
above the airport in the storm, and seeking an immediate emergency
landing. Keith Bakersfeld bad been working the flatface scope on which
the emergency signal appeared, and a supervisor had since joined him.
Both were now transmitting urgent, swift decisions-by interphone to
controllers at adjoining positions, and by radio to other aircraft.
The tower watch chief on the floor above had been promptly informed of
the distress signal. He, in turn,

had declared a category three emergency, alerting airport ground
facilities.
The flatface scope, at the moment the center of attention, was a
horizontal glass circle, the size of a bicycle tire, set into a tabletop
console. Its surface was dark green, with brilliant green points of light
showing all aircraft in the air within a forty-mile radius. As the
aircraft moved, so did the points of light. Beside each light point was
a small plastic marker, identifying it. The markers were known
colloquially as "shrimp boats" and controllers moved them by hand as
aircraft progressed and their positions on the screen changed. As more
aircraft appeared, they were identified by voice radio and similarly
tagged. New radar systems dispensed with shrimp boats; instead,
identifying letter-number codes-including altitude-appeared directly on
the radar screen. But the newer method was not yet in wide use and, like
all new systems, had bugs which needed elimination.
Tonight there was an extraordinary number of aircraft on the screen, and
someone had remarked earlier that the green pinpoints were proliferating
like fecund ants.
Keith was seated closest to the flatface, his lean, spindly figure
hunched forward in a gray steel chair. His body was tense; his legs,
hooked underneath the chair, were as rigid as the chair itself. He was
concentrating, his face strained and gaunt, as it had been for months.
The green reflection of the scope accentuated, eerily, deep hollows
beneath his eyes. Anyone who knew Keith well, but had not seen him for
a year or so, would have been shocked both by his appearance and his
change in manner. Once, he had exuded an amiable, relaxed good-nature;
now, all signs of it were gone. Keith was six years younger than his
brother, Met, but nowadays appeared a good deal older.
The change in Keith Bakersfeld had been noticed by his colleagues, some
of whom were working tonight at other control positions in the radar
room. They were also well aware of the reason for the change, a reason
which had evoked genuine sympathy. However, they

were practical men with an exacting job, which was why the radar
supervisor, Wayne Tevis, was observing Keith covertly at this moment,
watching the signs of increasing strain, as he had for some time. Tevis,
a lanky, drawling Texan, sat centrally in the radar room on a high stool
from where he could peer down over the shoulders of operators at the
several radarscopes serving special functions. Tevis had personally
equipped the stool with castors, and periodically he rode it like a horse,
propelling himself by jabs of his hand-tooled Texan boots wherever he was
needed at the moment.
During the preceding hour, Wayne Tevis had at no point moved far away
from Keith. The reason was that Tevis was ready, if necessary, to relieve
Keith from radar watch, a decision which instinct told him might have to
be made at any time.
The radar supervisor was a kindly man, despite his mM flamboyance. He
dreaded what he might have to do, and was aware of how far-reaching, for
Keith, its effect could be. Nevertheless, if he had to, he would do it.
His eyes on Keith's flatface scope, Tevis drawled, "Keith, old son, that
Braniff flight is closing on Eastern. If you turn Braniff right, you can
keep Eastern going on the same course." It was something which Keith
should have seen himself, but hadn't.
The problem, which most of the radar room crew was working at feverishly,
was to clear a path for the Air Force KC-135, which had already started
down on an instrument landing approach from ten thousand feet. The
difficulty was-below the big Air Force jet were five airline flights,
stacked at intervals of a thousand feet, and orbiting a limited airspace.
All were awaiting their turn to land. A few mfles on either side were
other columns of aircraft, simflarly stacked and, lower still, were three
more airliners, already on landing approaches. In between them all were
busy departure corridors. Somehow, the military flight had to be threaded
down through the stacked civilian airplanes without a collision
occurring. Under normal conditions the assignment would test the
strongest nerves. As it was, the

situation was complicated by radio failure in the KC135, so that voice
contact with the Air Force pilot had been lost.
Keith Bakersfeld thumbed his microphone. "Braniff eight twenty-nine, make
an immediate right turn, heading zero-niner-zero." At moments like this,
even though pressures built to fever pitch, voices should stay calm.
Keith's voice was highpitched and betrayed his nervousness. He saw Wayne
Tevis glance at him sharply. But the blips on the radar screen, which had
been uncomfortably close, began separating as the Braniff captain obeyed
instructions. There were moments-this was one-when air traffic controllers
thanked whatever gods they acknowledged for the swift, alert responses of
airline pilots. The pilots might beef, and often did subsequently, at being
given sudden course changes which required tight, abrupt turns and shook up
passengers. But when a controller gave the order "immediate," they obeyed
instantly and argued later.
In another minute or so the Braniff flight would have to be turned again,
and so would Eastern, which was at the same level. Even before that, there
must be new courses for two TWAs-one higher, the other lowerplus a Lake
Central Convair, an Air Canada Vanguard, and a Swissair just coming on the
screen. Until the KC-135 had come through, these and others must be given
zigzag courses, though for brief distances only, since none must stray into
adjoining airspaces. In a way, it was like an intricate chess game, except
that all the pieces were at various levels and moving at several hundred
miles an hour. Also as part of the game, pieces had to be raised or lowered
while they still moved forward, yet none must come closer than three miles
laterally or a thousand feet vertically from another, and none must go over
the edge of the board. And while all of it happened, the thousands of
passengers, anxious for their journeys to end, had to sit in their airborne
seats-and wait.
In occasional moments of detachment, Keith wondered how the Air Force
pilot, in difficulty and letting

down through storm and crowded airspace, was feeling at this moment.
Lonely, probably. Just as Keith himself was lonely; just as all life was
lonely, even with others physically close beside you. The pilot would have
a co-pilot and crew, in the same way that Keith had fellow-workers who,
at this moment, were near enough to touch. But that was not the kind of
nearness which counted. Not when you were alone in that inner room of the
mind, where no one else could enter, and where you lived-apart and
solitary-with awareness, memory, conscience, fear. Alone, from the moment
you were born until you died. Always, and forever, alone.
Keith Bakersfeld knew how much alone a single human being could be.
In succession, Keith gave fresh courses to Swissair, one of the TWAs,
Lake Central, and Eastern. Behind him he could bear Wayne Tevis trying
to raise the Air Force KC-135 on radio again. Still no response, except
that the distress radar blip, actuated by the KC-135 pilot, still
blossomed on the scope. The position on the blip showed the pilot was
doing the right thing-following exactly the instructions he had been
given before the radio failure happened. In doing so, be would be aware
that air traffic control could anticipate his movements. He would also
know that his position could be seen by radar on the ground, and trusted
that other traffic would be routed out of his way.
The Air Force flight, Keith knew, had originated in Hawaii and come
non-stop after mid-air refueling over the West Coast, its destination
Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington. But west of the Continental
Divide there had been an engine failure, and afterward electrical
trouble, causing the airplane commander to elect an unscheduled landing
at Smoky HUI, Kansas. At Smoky Hill, however, snow clearance of runways
had not been completed, and the KC-135 was diverted to Lincoln
International. Air Route Control nursed the military flight northeast
across Missouri and Illinois. Then, thirty miles out, West Arrivals
Control, in the person of Keith Bakersfeld, took over. It was soon
after-

ward that radio failure had been added to the pilot's other troubles.
Most times, when flying conditions were normal, military aircraft stayed
clear of civil airports. But in a storm like tonight's help was asked-and
given-without question.
In this darkened, tightly packed radar room, other controllers, as well
as Keith, were sweating. Yet no hint of pressures or tension must be
betrayed by controllers' voices when speaking with pilots in the air. The
pilots had plenty to concern themselves with at any time. Tonight,
buffeted by the storm, and flying solely on instruments with nil
visibility outside their cockpits, demands upon their skill were
multiplied. Most pilots had already flown extra time because of delays
caused by heavy traffic; now they would have to stay even longer in the
air.
From each radar control position a swift, quiet
stream of radio orders was going out to hold even more
flights clear of the danger area. The flights were
awaiting their own turn to land and every minute or two
were being joined by new arrivals coming off airways. A
controller, his voice low but urgent, called over his
shoulder. "Chuck, I've got a hot one. Can you take
Delta seven three?" It was a controller's way of saying
he was in trouble and had more than he could handle.
Another voice, "Hell!-I'm piled up, too … Wait! . . .
Affirmative, I got it." A second's pause. "Delta seven
three from Lincoln approach control. Turn left; heading
one two zero. Maintain altitude, four thousand!" Con
trollers helped each other when they could. A few min
utes from now the second man might need help himself.
"Hey, watch that Northwest; he's coming through from
the other side. Christ! it's getting like the Outer Driv ' e at
rush hour." . . . "American four four, hold present
heading, what's your altitude? That Lufthansa de-
parture's way off course. Get him the hell out of the
approach area!" . . . Departing flights were being routed
well around the trouble area, but arrivals were being
held up, valuable landing time lost. Even later, when the

emergency would be over, everyone knew it would take an hour or more to
unravel the aerial traffic jam.
Keith Bakersfeld was trying hard to maintain his concentration, to retain
a mental picture of his sector and every aircraft in it. It required
instant memorizingidentifications, positions, types of aircraft, speeds,
altitudes, sequence of landing . . . a detailed diagram, in depth, with
constant changes . . . a configuration which was never still. Even at
quieter times, mental strain was unceasing; tonight, the storm was taxing
cerebral effort to its limit. A controller's nightmare was to "lose the
picture," a situation where an overtaxed brain rebelled and everything
went blank. It happened occasionally, even to the best.
Keith had been the best. Until a year ago, he was one whom colleagues
turned to when pressures built to unreason. Keith, I'm getting swamped.
Can you take a couple? He always had.
But, lately, roles had changed. Now, colleagues shielded him as best they
could, though there was a limit to how much any man could help another
and do his own job, too.
More radio instructions were needed. Keith was on his own; Tevis, the
supervisor, had propelled himself and his high stool across the room to
check another controller. Keith's mind clicked out decisions. Turn
Branift left, Air Canada right, Eastern through a hundred and eighty
degrees. It was done; on the radar screen, blips were changing direction.
The slowermoving Lake Central Convair could be left another minute. Not
so, the Swissair jet; it was converging with Eastern. Swissair must be
given a new course immediately, but what? Think fast! Forty-five degrees
right, but for a minute only, then right again. Keep an eye on TWA and
Northwest! A new flight coming in from the west at high speed-identify,
and find more airspace. Concentrate, concentrate!
Keith determined grimly: He would not lose the picture; not tonight, not
now.
T'here was a reason for not doing so; a secret he had shared with no one,
not even Natalie, his wife. Only

Keith Bakersfeld, and Keith alone, knew that this was the last time he would
ever face a radarscope or stand a watch. Today was his last day with air
traffic control. It would be over soon.
It was also the last day of his life.
"Take a break, Keith." It was the tower watch chief's voice.
Keith had not seen the tower chief come, in. He had done so unobtrusively,
and was standing by Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor.
A moment earlier, Tevis had told the tower chief quietly, "Keith's all
right, I reckon. For a few minutes I was worried, but he seemed to pull
together." Tevis was glad he had not had to take the drastic action he had
contemplated earlier, but the tower chief murmured, "Let's take him off a
while, anyway"; and, as an afterthought, "I'll do it."
Glancing at the two men together, Keith knew at once why he was being
relieved. There was still a crisis, and they didn't trust him. The work
break was a pretext; he wasn't due for one for half-an-hour. Should he
protest? For a controller as senior as himself, it was an indignity which
others would notice. Then he thought: Why make an issue now? It wasn't
worth it. Besides, a ten-minute break would steady him. Afterward, when the
worst of the emergency was over, he could return to work for the remainder
of his shift.
Wayne Tevis leaned forward. "Lee will take over, Keith." He motioned to
another controller who had just returned from his own work break-a
scheduled one.
Keith nodded, without comment, though he remained in place and continued to
give radio instructions to aircraft while the new man got the picture. It
usually took several minutes for one controller to hand over to another.
The man coming in had to study the radar display, letting the over-all
situation build in his mind. He also needed to become mentally tensed.
Getting tensed-consciously and deliberately-was a part of the job.
Controllers called it "sharpening to an edge," and in Keith's fifteen years
in air traffic control, he had watched it happen regularly, to others and
to

himself. You did it, because you had to, when you took over a duty, as
now. At other times it became a reflex action, such as when controllers
drove to work together –in car pools, as some did. On leaving home,
conversation would be relaxed and normal. At that point in the journey,
a casual question like, "Are you going to the ball game Saturday?" would
elicit an equally casual answer-"Sure am," or "No, I can't make it this
week." Yet, nearing the job, conversation tautened, so that the same
question-a quarter mile from the airport-might produce a terse
"affirmative" or "negative," and nothing more.
Coupled with tense mental sharpness was another requirement-a controlled,
studied calmness at all times on duty. The two
requirements-contradictory in terms of human nature-were exhausting
mentally and, in the long run, took a toll. Many controllers developed
stomach ulcers which they concealed through fear of losing their jobs.
As part of the concealment, they paid for private medical advice instead
of seeking free medical help to which their employment entitled them. At
work, they hid bottles of Maalox-"'for the relief of gastric
hyperacidity"-in their lockers and, at intervals, sipped the white,
sweetish fluid surreptitiously.
There were other effects. Some controllers-Keith Bakersfeld knew
several-were mean and irascible at home, or flew into rages, as a
reaction to pent-up emotions at work. Coupled with irregular hours of
working and sleeping, which made it difficult to regulate a household,
the effect was predictable. Among air traffic controllers, the list of
broken homes was long, divorce rates high.
"Okay," the new man said, "I have the picture."
Keith slid out from his seat, disconnecting his headset as the relieving
controller took his place. Even before the newcomer was seated, he had
begun transmitting fresh instructions to the lower TWA.
The tower chief told Keith, "Your brother said he might drop around
later,"
Keith nodded as he left the radar room. He felt no resentment against the
tower chief, who had his own

responsibilities to contend with, and Keith was glad he had made no
protest about being relieved prematurely. More than anything else at the
moment, Keith wanted a cigarette, some coffee, and to be alone. He was
also glad –now the decision had been made for him-to be away from the
emergency situation. He had been involved in too many in the past to
regret missing the culmination of one more.
Air traffic emergencies of one kind or another occurred several times a
day at Lincoln International, as they did at any major airport. They
could happen in any kind of weather-on the clearest day, as well as
during a storm like tonight's. Usually, only a few people knew about such
incidents, because almost all were resolved safely, and even pilots in
the air were seldom told the reason for delays or abrupt instructions to
turn this way or that. For one thing, there was no need for them to know;
for another, there was never time for radio small talk. Ground emergency
staffs-crash crews, ambulance attendants, and police-as well as airport
senior management, were always alerted, and the action they took depended
on the category of emergency declared. Category one was the most serious,
but was rarely invoked, since it signaled an actual crash. Category two
was notification of imminent danger to life, or physical damage. Category
three, as now, was a general warning to airport emergency facilities to
stand by; they might be needed, or they might not. For controllers,
however, any type of emergency involved additional pressures and af-
tereffects.
Keith entered the controllers' locker room which adjoined the radar
control room. Now that he had a few minutes to think more calmly, he
hoped, for the sake of everyone, that the Air Force KC-135 pilot, and all
others in the air tonight, made it safely down through the storm.
The locker room, a small cubicle with a single window, had three walls
of metal lockers, and a wooden bench down the center. A notice board
beside the window held an untidy collection of official bulletins and
notices from airport social groups. An unshaded light

bulb in the ceiling seemed dazzling after the radar room's semidarkness. No
one else was in the locker room, and Keith reached for the light switch and
turned it off. There were floodlights on the tower outside, and enough light
came in for him to see.
He lit a cigarette. Then, opening his locker, he took out the lunch pail
which Natalie had packed before his departure from home this afternoon. As
he poured coffee from a Thermos, he wondered if Natalie bad put a note in
with his meal, or, if not a note, some inconsequential item she had clipped
from a newspaper or a magazine. She often did one of both, hoping, he sup-
posed, that it might cheer him. She had worked hard at doing that, right
from the beginning of his trouble. At first, she had used obvious ones,
though Keith had always realized-in a detached, dispassionate kind of
way-exactly what Natalie was doing, or trying to. More recently, there had
been fewer notes and clippings-
Perhaps Natalie, too, had finaUy lost heart. She had had less to say
lately, and he knew, from the redness of her eyes, there were times she had
been crying.
Keith had wanted to help her when he saw it. But how could he-when he
couldn't help himself?
A picture of Natalie was taped to the inside of his locker door-a snapshot,
in color, which Keith bad taken. He had brought it here three years ago.
Now, the light from outside shone on the picture only dimly, but he knew it
so well, he could see what was there, whether highlighted or not.
The picture showed Natalie in a bikini. She was seated on a rock, laughing,
one slim hand held above her eyes to shield them from the sun. Her light
brown hair streamed behind; her smaU, pert face showed the freckles which
always appeared in summer. There was an impudent, pixyish quality to
Natalie Bakersfeld, as well as strength of will, and the camera had caught
both. In the rear of the picture was a blue-water lake, high ftrs, and a
rocky outcropping. They had been on a motoring holiday in Canada, camping
among the Haliburton lakes, and for once their children, Brian and

Theo, had been left behind in Illinois, with Mel and Cindy. The holiday
proved to be one of the happier times that Keith and Natalie had ever
known.
Perhaps, Keith thought, it wasn't a bad thing to be remembering it
tonight.
Pushed in behind the photo was a folded paper. It was one of the notes
he had been thinking about, which Natalie put occasionally in his lunch
pail. This was one from a few months ago which, for some reason, he had
saved. Though knowing what was there, he took the paper out and walked
to the window to read. It was a clipping from a news magazine, with some
lines below in his wife's handwriting.
Natalie had all kinds of odd interests, some farranging, which she
encouraged Keith and the boys to share. This clipping was about
continuing experiments, by U.S. geneticists. Human sperm, it reported,
could now be fast frozen. The sperm was placed in a deep freeze for
storage where it remained in good condition indefinitely. When thawed,
it could be used for fertdization of women at any time-either soon or
generations hence.
Natalie had written:

The Ark could have been 50 percent smaller, if Noah
Had known the facts about frozen spermatazoa; It appears you can have
babies by the score
Merely by opening a refrigerator door.
I'm glad we had our ration
With love and passion.

She had been trying then; still trying desperately to return their lives
. . . the two of them; and as a family
. . to the way they had been before. With love and passion.
Met had joined forces, too, attempting with Natalie, to induce his
brother to fight free from the tide-race of anguish and depression which
engulfed him totally.
Even then a part of Keith had wanted to respond. Summoning, from some
deep consciousness, a spark of

spirit, he had sought to match their strength by drawing on his own; to
respond to proffered love with love himself. But the effort failed. It
failed-as he had known it would-because there was no feeling or emotion left
within himself. Neither warmth, nor love, nor even anger to be kindled. Only
bleakness, remorse, and allenveloping despair.
Natalie realized their failure now; he was sure of that. It was the reason,
he suspected, that she had been crying, somewhere out of sight.
And Mel? Perhaps Mel, too, bad given up. Though not entirely-Keith
remembered what the tower chief had told him. "Your brother said he might
drop around

It would be simpler if Mel didn't. Keith felt unequal to the ellort, even
though they had been as close as brothers could be all their lives. Mel's
presence might be complicating.
Keith Nvas too drained, too weary, for complications any more.
He wondered again if Natalie had put in a note with his meal tonight. fie
took out the contents of the lunch pail carefully, hoping that she had.
There were ham and watercress sandwiches, a container of cottage cheese, a
pear, and wrapping paper. Nothing more.
Now that he knew there was none, he wished desperately there had been some
message; any message, even the most trifling. Then he realized-it was his
own fault; there had been no time. Today, because of the preparations he
needed to make, he had left home earlier than usual. Natalie, to whom he
had given no advance warning, had been rushed. At one point, he had sug-
gested not taking a lunch at all; he would get a meal, he said, at one of
the airport cafeterias. But Natalie, who knew the cafeterias would be
crowded and noisy, which Keith disliked, had said no, and gone ahead as
quickly as she could. She had not asked why he wanted to leave early,
though he knew she was curious. Keith was relieved that there had been no
question. If there had been, he would have had to invent something, and he
% AIRPORT

would not have wanted the last words between them to have been a lie.
As it was, there had been enough time. He had driven to the airport
business area and registered at the O'Hagan Inn where, earlier in the
day, he had made a reservation by telephone. He had planned everything
carefully, using a plan worked out several weeks ago, though he had
waited-giving himself time to think about it, and be sure-before putting
the plan into effect. After checking into his room, he had left the Inn
and arrived at the airport in time to go on duty.
The O'Hagan Inn was within a few minutes' drive of Lincoln International.
In a few hours from now, when Keith's duty watch was ended, he could go
there quickly. The room key was in his pocket. He took it out to check.

The inform a tion-wh ich the tower watch chief had relayed earlier to Mel
Bakersfeld-about a meeting of Meadowood citizenry, was entirely accurate.
The meeting, in the Sunday school hall of Meadowood First Baptist
Church-fifteen seconds, as a jet flies, from the end of runway two
five-had been in session half-an-hour. Its proceedings had started later
than planned, since most of the six hundred adults who were present had
had to battle their way, in cars and on foot, through deep snow. But
somehow they had come.
It was a mixed assemblage, such as might be found in any averagely
prosperous dormitory community. Of the men, some were medium-level
executives, others artisans, with a sprinkling of local tradespeople. In
numbers, men and women were approximately equal. Since it was Friday
night, the beginning of a weekend, most

were casually dressed, though exceptions were half a dozen v.~sitors from
outside the community and several press rePorters.
The Sunday school hall was now uncomfortably crowded, stuffy and
smoke-filled. All available chairs were occupied, and at least a hundred
people were standinv.
That so many had turned out at all on such a night, leaving warm homes to
do so, spoke eloquently of their mettle and concern. They were also, at the
moment, unanimously angry.
The anger-almost as tangible as the tobacco smoke –had two sources. First
was the long-standing bitterness with the airport's by-product-the
thunderous, ear-assaulting noise of jet propulsion which assailed the homes
of Meadowood, day and night, shattering peace and privacy, both waking and
sleeping. Second was the immediate frustration that, through a large part
of the meeting so far, those assembled had been unable to hear one another.
Some difficulty in hearing had been anticipated. After all, it was what the
meeting was about, and a portable p.a. system had been borrowed from the
church. What had not been expected, however, was that tonight jet aircraft
would be taking off immediately overhead, rendering both human ears and the
p.a. system useless. The cause, which the meeting neither knew nor cared
about, was that runway three zero was blocked by the mired A6reo-Mexican
707, and other aircraft were being instructed to use runway two five
instead. The latter runway pointed directly at Meadowood, like an arrow;
whereas runway three zero, when usable, at least routed takeoffs slightly
to one side.
In a momentary silence the chairman, red-faced, shouted, "Ladies and
gentlemen, for years we have tried reasoning with the airport management
and the airline companies. We have pointed to the violation of our homes.
We have proved, with independent testimony, that normal living-under the
bar-rage of noise we are forced to endure-is impossible. We have pleaded
that our very sanity is in danger and that our wives, our

children, and ourselves live on the edge of nervous breakdowns, which some
among us have suffered already."
The chairman was a beavy-jowled, balding man named Floyd Zanetta, who was
a printing firm manager and Meadowood homeowner. Zanetta, sixtyish, was
prominent in community affairs, and in the lapel of his sports jacket was
a Kiwanis long-service badge.
Both the chairman and an impeccably dressed younger man were on a small
raised platform at the front of the hall. The younger man, seated, was
Elliott Freemantle, a lawyer. A black leather briefcase stood open at his
side.
Floyd Zanetta slarnmed a hand on the lectern in front of him. "N"at do the
airport and airlines do? I'll tell you what they do. They pretend; pretend
to Listen. And while they are pretending, they make promises and more
promises which they have no intention of fulfilling. The airport
management, the FAA, and the airlines are cheats and liars . . ."
The word "liars" was lost.
It was engLdfed in a shattering, almost unbelievable crescendo of iound, a
monstrous roar of power which seemed to seize the budding and shake it. As
if protectively, many in the hall covered their ears. A few glanced upward
nervously. Others, their eyes transmitting anger, spoke heatedly to those
beside them, though only a Lip reader could have known what was said; no
words were audible. A water pitcher near the chairman's lectern trembled.
If Zanetta had not grasped it quickly, it would have fallen to the floor
and shattered.
As swiftly as it had begun and built, the roar lessened and faded. Already
miles away and several thousand feet above, Flight 58 of Pan American was
climbing through storm and darkness, reaching for higher, clearer
altitudes, swinging onto course for Frankfurt, Germany. Now, Continental
Airlines 23, destination Denver, Colorado, was rolling on the farther end
of runway two five, cleared for takeoff-over Meadowood. Other flights,
already in line on an adjoining taxiway, were waiting their turn to follow.

It had been the same way all evening, even before the Meadowood meeting
started. And after it started, business had had to be conducted in brief
intervals between the overwhelming din of takeoffs.
Zanetta continued hastily, "I said they are cheats and liars. What is
happening here and now is conclusive evidence. At the very least we are
entitled to noise abatement procedures, but tonight even this . . ."
"Mr. Chairman," a woman's voice cut in from the body of the hall, "we've
heard all this before. We all know it, and going over it again won't change
anything." All eyes had turned to the woman, who was now standing. She had
a strong, intelligent face and shoulder-length brown hair which had fallen
forward, so that she brushed it back impatiently. "What I want to know, and
so do others, is what else can we do, and where do we go from here?"
There was an outburst of applause, and cheering.
Zanetta said irritably, "If you'll kindly let me finish. . ."
He never did.
Once again, the same encompassing roar dominated the Sunday school ball.
The tin-Ling, and the last remark, provided the only laughter, so far, of
the evening. Even the chairman grinned ruefully as he raised his hands in
a despairing gesture.
A man's voice called peevishly, "Get on with it!"
Zanetta nodded agreement. He continued speaking, picking his way-like a
climber over rocks-between recurring peaks of sound from overhead. What the
community of Meadowood must do, he declared, was to discard politeness and
reasonable approaches to the airport authority and others. Instead, a
purely legalistic attack must be the order from now on. The residents of
Meadowood were citizens with legal rights, which were being infringed upon.
Along with those legal rights went recourse to the courts; therefore, they
must be prepared to fight in the courts, with toughness, even viciousness
if necessary. As to what form a legalistic offensive should take, it so
happened that a noted lawyer, Mr. Elliott

Freemantle, whose offices were downtown in the Loop , had consented to be
present at the meeting. Mr. Freemantle had made a study of laws affecting
excessive noise, privacy and airspace, and, very soon, those who had braved
the weather to attend would have the pleasure of hearing this distinguished
gentleman. He would, in fact, present a proposal …
As the clich6s rolled on, Elliott Freemantle fidgeted. He passed a hand
lightly over his barber-styled, graystreaked hair, fingering the smoothness
of his chin and cheeks-he had shaved an hour before the meetingand his keen
sense of'smell confirmed that the exclusive face lotion, which be always
used after shaving and sunlamp sessions, still lingered. He recrossed his
legs, observing that his two-hundred dollar alligator shoes still gleamed
with mirror clearness, and was careful not to spoil the crease in the
trousers of his tailored Blue Spruce pebble-weave suit. Elliott Freemantle
had long ago discovered that people preferred their lawyers unlike their
doctors-to look prosperous. Prosperity in a lawyer conveyed an aura of
success at the bar, success which those about to engage in litigation
wanted for themselves.
Elliott Freemantle hoped that most of those in the hall would shortly
become litigants, and that he would represent them. Meanwhile, he wished
the old cluck of a chairman, Zanetta, would get the bell off his feet so
that he, Freemantle, could take over. There was no surer way to lose the
confidence of an audience, or a jury, than by letting them think faster
than yourself, so that they became aware of what you were going to say
before you said it. Freemantle's finely honed intuition told him this was
what was happening now. It meant that when his own turn came, he would have
to work that much harder to establish his competence and superior
intellect.
Some among his legal colleagues might have questioned whether Elliott
Freemantle's intellect was, in fact, superior. They might even have
objected to the chairman's description of him as a gentleman.
Fellow lawyers sometimes regarded Freemantle as an

exhibitionist who commanded high fees mainly through a showman's instinct
for attracting attention. It was conceded, though, that he had an enviable
knack for latching early onto causes which later proved spectacular and
profitable.
For Elliott Freemantle, the Meadowood situation seemed custom made.
He had read about the community's problem and promptly arranged, through
contacts, to have his name suggested to several homeowners as the one
lawyer who could most likely help them. As a result, a homeowners
committee eventually approached him, and the fact that they did so,
rather than the other way around, gave him a psychological advantage he
had planned from the beginning. Meanwhile, he had made a superficial
study of the law, and recent court decisions, affecting noise and
privacy-a subject entirely new to him-and when the committee arrived,
he addressed them with the assurance of a lifetime expert.
Later, he had made the proposition which resulted in this meeting
tonight, and his own attendance.
Thank God! It looked as if Zanetta, the chairman, were finally through
with his windy introduction. Banal to the last, he was intoning, ". . .
and so it is my privilege and pleasure to present . . ."
Scarcely waiting for his name to be spoken, Elliott Freemantle bounded
to his feet. He began speaking before Zanetta's buttocks had made contact
with his chair. As usual, he dispensed with all preliminaries.
"If you are expecting sympathy from me, you can leave right now, because
there won't be any. You won't get it at this session, or others we may
have later. I am not a purveyor of crying towels, so if you need them,
I suggest you get your own, or supply each other. My business is law.
Law, and nothing else."
He had deliberately made his voice harsh, and he knew he had jolted them,
as he intended to.
He had also seen the newspaper reporters look up and pay attention. There
were three of them at the press table near the front of the hall-two
young men from the big city dailies and an elderly woman from a local

weekly. All were important to his plans, and he had taken the trouble to
find out their names and speak to them briefly before the meeting started.
Now, their pencils were racing. Good! Cooperation with the press always
ranked high in any project of Elliott Freemantle's, and he knew from
experience that the best way to achieve it was by providing a lively story
with a fresh angle. Usually he succeeded. Newspaper people appreciated
that-a lot more than free drinks or food-and the livelier and more
colorful the story, the more friendly their reportage was inclined to be.
He returned his attention to the audience.
Only a shade less aggressively, he continued. "If we decide, between us,
that I am to represent you, it will be necessary for me to ask you
questions about the effect of airport noise on your homes, your families,
your own physical and mental health. But do not imagine I shall be asking
the questions because I care personally about these things, or you as
individuals. Frankly, I don't. You may as well know that I am an
extremely selfish man. If I ask these questions, it will be to discover
to what extent wrong has been done you under the law. I am already
convinced that some wrong has been done –perhaps considerable wrong-and,
in that event, you are entitled to legal redress. But you may as well
know that whatever I learn, and however deeply I become involved, I am
not given to losing sleep about the welfare of my clients when I'm away
from my office or the courts. But . . ." Freemantle paused dramatically,
and stabbed a finger forward to underscore his words. "But, in my office
and in the courts, as clients, you would have the utmost of my attention
and ability, on questions of law. And on those occasions, if we work to-
gether, I promise you will be glad I am on your side and not against
you."
Now he had the attention of everyone in the hall. Some, both men and
women, were sitting forward in their chairs, striving not to miss any
words as he paused –though for the minimum time-as aircraft continued
overhead. A few faces had become hostile as he spoke, but not many. It
was time, though, to relax the pressure

a little. lie gave a swift, short smile, then went on seriously.
"I inform you of these things so that we understand each other. Some
people tell me that I am a mean, unpleasant man. Maybe they are right,
though personally if ever I want a lawyer for myself I'll make sure of
choosing someone who is mean and unpleasant, also tough-on my behalf."
There were a few approving nods and smiles.
"Of course, if you want a nicer guy who'll hand you more sympathy, though
maybe a bit less law"-Elliott Freemantle shrugged-"that's your
privilege."
He had been watching the audience closely and saw a responsible-looking
man, in heavy rimmed glasses, lean toward a woman and whisper. From their
expressions, Freemantle guessed the man was saying, "This is more like
ifl-what we wanted to hear." The woman, probably the whisperer's wife,
nodded agreement. Around the hall, other faces conveyed the sam e
impression.
As usual on occasions like this, Elliott Freemantle had shrewdly judged
the temper of the meeting and calculated his own approach. He sensed
early that these people were weary of platitudes and sympathy-wellmeaning
but ineffective. His own words, blunt and brutal, were like a cold,
refreshing douche. Now, before minds could relax and attention wander,
be must take a new tack. The moment for specifics had arrived-tonight,
for this group, a discourse on the law of noise. Tbe trick to holding
audience attention, at which Elliott Freemantle excelled, was to stay
half a mental pace ahead; that much and no more, so that those listening
could follow what was being said, but must remain sufficiently alert to
do so.
"Pay attention," he commanded, "because I'm going to talk about your
particular problem."
The law of noise, he declared, was increasingly under study by the
nation's courts. Old concepts were changing. New court decisions were
establishing that excessive noise could be an invasion of privacy as well
as trespass on property rights. Moreover, courts were in a mood to grant
injunctions and financial recompense

where intrusion-including aircraft intrusion-could be proven.
Elliott Freemantle paused while another takeoff thundered overhead, then
gestured upward. "I believe you will have no difficulty in proving it
here."
At the press table, all three reporters made a note.
The United States Supreme Court, he went on, had already set a precedent.
In U.S. v. Causby the court ruled that a Greensboro , North Carolina ,
chicken farmer was entitled to compensation because of "invasion" by
military planes flying low above his house. In handing down the Causby
decision, Mr. Justice Wifliam 0. Douglas had stated, ". . . if the
landowner is to have full enjoyment of the land, he must have exclusive
control of the immediate reaches of the enveloping atmosphere." In
another case reviewed by the Supreme Court, Griggs v. County of
Allegheny, a similar principle was upheld. In state courts of Oregon and
Washington , in Thornburg v. Port of Portland and Martin v. Port of
Seattle , damages for excessive aircraft noise had been awarded, even
though airspace directly above the plaintiffs had not been violated.
Other communities had begun, or were contemplating, similar legal action,
and some were employing sound trucks and movie cameras as aids to proving
their case. The trucks took decibel readings of noise; the cameras
recorded aircraft altitudes. The noise frequently proved greater, the
altitudes lower, than airlines and airport management admitted. In Los
Angeles, a homeowner had filed suit against L. A. International Airport ,
asserting that the airport, by permitting landings on a newly extended
runway close to his home, had taken an easement on his property without
due process of law. The homeowner was claiming ten thousand dollars which
he believed to be equivalent to the decrease in value of his home. Else-
where, more and more similar cases were being argued in the courts.
The recital was succinct and impressive. Mention of a specific surn-ten
thousand dollars-evoked immediate interest, as Elliott Freemantle
intended that it should. The entire presentation sounded authoritative,
factual,

and the product of years of study. Only Freemantle himself knew that his
"facts" were the result, not of poring over law reports, but of two hours,
the previous afternoon, spent studying newsclippings in a downtown newspaper
morgue.
There were also several facts which he had failed to mention. The chicken
farmer ruling of the Supreme Court was made more than twenty years earlier,
and total damages awarded were a trifling three hundred and seventy-five
dollars-the actual value of some dead chickens. The Los Angeles suit was
merely a claim which had not yet come to trial and might never do so. A
more significant case, Batten v. U.S., on which the Supreme Court had ruled
as recently as 1963, Elliott Freemantle knew about but conveniently
ignored. In Batten, the court accepted that only an actual "physical
invasion" could create liability; noise alone did not do so. Since, at
Meadowood, there had been no such invasion, the Batten precedent meant that
if a legal case was launched, it might well be lost before it was begun.
But lawyer Freemantle had no wish for this to be known, at least not yet;
nor was he overly concerned whether a case, if brought to court, might
eventually be won or lost. What he wanted was this Meadowood homeowners
group as clients-at a whopping fee.
On the subject of fee, he had already counted the house and done some
mental arithmetic. The result delighted him.
Of six hundred people in the hall, he estimated that five hundred, probably
more, were Meadowood property owners. Allowing for the presence of husbands
and wives together, it meant there was a minimum of two hundred and fifty
prospective clients. If each of those two hundred and fifty could be
persuaded to sign a one hundred dollar retainer a,~reement-which Elliott
Freemantle hoped they would before the evening was over-a total fee in
excess of twenty-five thousand dollars seemed decidedly within reach.
On other occasions he had managed precisely the same thing. It was
remarkable what you could accomplish with audacity, particularly when
people were white

hot in pursuing their own interests. An ample supply of printed retainer
forms was in his bag. This memorandum of ajqreement between . . . . . .
. . hereinaf ter known as plaintifils and Freemantle and Sye, attorneys
at law … who will undertake plaintijffls legal representation in
promotion of a claim for damages sustained due to aircraft use of the
Lincoln International Airport facility . . . Plaintijff Is agrees to pay
the said Freemantle and Sye one hundred dollars, in four installments of
twenty-five dollars, the first installment now due and payable, the
balance quarterly on demand … Further, if the suit is successful
Freemantle and Sye will receive ten percent of the gross amount of any
damages awarded. . .
The ten percent was a long shot because it was highly unlikely that there
would ever be any damages to collect. Just the same, strange things
sometimes happened in law, and Elliott Freemantle believed in covering
all bases.
"I have informed you of the legal background," he asserted. "Now I intend
to give you some advice." He flashed one of his rare, quick smiles. "This
advice will be a free sample, but-like toothpaste-any subsequent tubes
will have to be paid for."
There was a responsive laugh which he cut off brusquely with a gesture.
"My advice is that there is little time for anything else but action.
Action now."
The remark produced handclapping and more nods of approval.
There was a tendency, he continued, to regard legal proceedings as
automatically slow and tedious. Often that was true, but on occasions,
if determination and legal skill were used, the law could be harried
along. In the present instance, legal action should be begun at once,
before airlines and airport, by perpetuation of noise over a period of
years, could claim custom and usage. As if to underline the point, still
another aircraft thundered overhead. Before its sound could die, Elliott
Freemantle shouted, "So I repeat-my advice to you is wait no longer! You
should act tonight. Now!"
Near the front of the audience, a youngish man. in an

alpaca cardigan and hopsack slacks sprang to his feet. "By God!-tell us how
we start."
"You start-if you want to-by retaining me as your legal counsel."
There was an instant chorus of several hundred voices. "Yes, we want to."
The chairman, Floyd Zanetta, was now on his feet again, waiting for the
shouting to subside. He appeared pleased. Two of the reporters had craned
around and were observing the obvious enthusiasm throughout the haH. The
third reporter-the elderly woman from the local weekly-looked up at the
platform with a friendly smile.
It had worked, as Elliott Freemantle had known it would. The rest, he
realized, was merely routine. Within the next half hour a good many of the
retainer blanks in his bag would be signed, while others would be taken
home, talked over, and most likely mailed tomorrow. These people were not
afraid of signing papers, or of legal procedures; they had become
accustomed to both in purchasing their homes. Nor would a hundred dollars
seem an excessive sum; a few might even be surprised that the figure was
that low. Only a handful would bother doing the mental arithmetic which
Elliott Freemantle had done himself, and even if they objected to the size
of the total amount, he could argue that the fee was justified by
responsibility for the large numbers involved.
Besides, he would give them value for their moneya good show, with
fireworks, in court and elsewhere. He glanced at his watch; better get on.
Now that his own involvement was assured, he wanted to cement the rela-
tionship by staging the first act of a drama. Like every.thing else so far,
it was something he had already planned and it would gain attention-much
more than this meeting-in tomorrow's newspapers. It would also confirm to
these people that he meant what he said about not wasting any time.
The actors in the drama would be the residents of Meadowood, here
assembled, and he hoped that every-

one present was prepared to leave this hall and to stay out late.
The scene would be the airport.
The time: tonight.

At approximately the same time that Elliott Freemantle was savoring
success, an embittered, thwarted, former building contractor named D. 0.
Guerrero was surrendering to failure.
Guerrero was fifteen miles or so from the airport, in a locked room of
a shabby walk-up apartment on the city's South Side. The apartment was
over a noisome, greasy-spoon lunch counter on 51st Street, not far from
the stockyards.
D. 0. Guerrero was a gaunt, spindly man, slightly stoop-shouldered, with
a sallow face and protruding, narrow jaw. He had deep-set eyes, pale thin
lips, and a slight sandy mustache, His neck was scrawny, with a prominent
Adam's apple. His hairline was receding. He had nervous hands, and his
fingers were seldom still. He smoked constantly, usually lighting a fresh
cigarette from the stub of the last. At the moment he needed a shave and
a clean shirt, and was perspiring, even though the room in which he bad
locked himself was cold. His age was fifty; he looked several years
older.
Guerrero was married, and had been for eighteen years. By some standards,
the marriage was good, if unspectacular. D.O. (through most of his life
he bad been known by his initials) and Inez Guerrero accepted each other
equably, and the idea of coveting some other partner seemed not to occur
to them. D. 0. Guerrero, in any case, had never been greatly interested
in women; business, and financial maneuvering, occupied Ws

thoughts far more. But in the past year, a mental gulf had opened between
the Guerreros which Inez, though she tried, was unable to bridge. It was
one result of a series of business disasters which reduced them from
comparative affluence to near poverty, and eventually forced a succession
of moves-first from their comfortable and spacious, if heavily mortgaged,
suburban home to other quarters less pretentious, and later still to this
seamy, drafty, cockroach-infested, two-room apartment.
Even though Inez Guerrero did not enjoy their situation, she might have
made the best of it if her husband had not become increasingly moody,
savagely bad tempered, and at times impossible to talk with. A few weeks
ago, in a rage, he had struck Inez, bruising her face badly, and though
she would have forgiven him, he would neither apologize nor discuss the
incident later. She feared more violence and, soon after, sent their two
teen-age children-a boy and a girl-to stay with her married sister in
Cleveland. Inez herself stayed on, taking a job as a coffee-house
waitress, and although the work was hard and the pay small, it at least
provided money for food. Her husband seemed scarcely to notice the
children's absence, or her own; his mood recently had been a deep and
self-contained dejection.
Inez wits now at her job. D. 0. Guerrero was in the apartment alone. He
need not have locked the door of the small bedroom where he was occupied,
but had done so as an added guarantee of privacy, even though he would
not be there for long.
Like others this night, D. 0. Guerrero would shortly leave for the
airport. He held a confirmed reservation, plus a validated ticket-for
tonight-on Trans America Flight Two to Rome. At this moment, the ticket
was in a pocket of his topcoat, also in the locked room, slung over a
rickety wooden chair.
Inez Guerrero had no knowledge of the ticket to Rome, nor did she have
the slightest inkling of her husband's motive in obtaining it.
The Trans America ticket was for a round trip excursion which normally
cost four hundred and seventy-four

dollars. However, by lying, D. 0. Guerrero had obtained credit. He had
paid forty-seven dollars down, acquired by pawning his wife's last
possession of any value-her mother's ring (Inez had not yet missed it)