Runway Zero-Eight

“Good evening,” came the stewardess’ sprightly voice over the public address system. “The Maple Leaf Air Charter Company welcomes aboard its new passengers to Flight 714. We hope you will enjoy your flight. Please fasten your safety belts. We shall be taking off in a few moments.”

As Spencer fumbled with his catch, the man next to him grunted, “That’s a pretty sobering sentence. Don’t often see it,” and nodded down to a small notice on the back of the seat in front reading Your lifebelt is under the seat.

Spencer laughed. “I’d certainly have been sunk if I hadn’t caught this bus,” he said.

“Oh? Pretty keen fan, eh?”

“Fan?” Spencer remembered that this was a charter flight for a ball game. “Er — no,” he said hastily. “I hadn’t given the game a thought. I hate to admit it but I’m rushing off to Vancouver to keep a business appointment. I’d sure like to see that game, but it’s out of the question, I’m afraid.”

His companion lowered his voice as conspiratorially as was possible against the rising note of the engines. “I shouldn’t say that too loudly, if I were you. This plane is crammed with squareheads who are going to Vancouver with one purpose only — and that’s to root like hell for their boys and to roar damnation and defiance at the enemy. They’re quite likely to do you harm if you use such a light tone about it.”

Spencer chuckled again and leaned out from his seat to look round the crowded cabin. There was evidence in plenty of a typical, noisy, roistering but good-natured party of sports fans traveling with the one objective of vanquishing the opposing team and triumphing with their own. To Spencer’s immediate right sat a man and his wife, their noses buried in the lurid pages of sports magazines. Behind them, four supporters were pouring rye into paper tumblers and preparing jto make a night of it by arguing the respective merits of various players; a snatch of their conversation came over to him like a breath of the field itself. “Haggerty? Haggerty? Don’t give me that stuff. He’s not in the same league as the Thunderbolt. Now there’s a man for you, if you like….” Behind the slightly alcoholic foursome were other obvious team supporters wearing favors with the colors of their team; mostly big, red-faced men intent on playing the game that lay ahead in Vancouver before it took place.

Spencer turned to the man beside him. Trained to observe detail, he noted the quiet suit, of good cut originally but now well-crumpled, the tie that didn’t match, the lined face and graying hair, the indefinable impression of confidence and authority. A face of character, Spencer decided. Behind it the blue lights of the perimeter track had begun to slide past as the aircraft rolled forward.

“I sound like a heretic,” said Spencer conversationally, “but I must confess that I’m on my way to the coast on a sales trip, and a mighty important one at that.”

His companion showed a polite interest. “What do you sell?” he inquired.

“Trucks. Lots of trucks.”

“Trucks, eh? I thought they were sold by dealers.”

“So they are. I get called for when a deal is cooking that involves maybe thirty to a hundred trucks. The local salesmen don’t like me too well because they say I’m the sharpshooter from head office with the special prices. Selling has its little problems, all right. Still, it’s a reasonable living.” Spencer rummaged for his cigarettes, then stopped himself. “Heck, I shouldn’t be smoking. We’re not in the air yet, are we?”

“If we are, we’re flying pretty low. And at nil knots.”

“Just as well, then.” Spencer stretched his legs in front of him. “Man, I’m tired. It’s been one of those goofy days that send you up the wall. Know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“First this bird decides he likes a competitor’s trucks better after all. Then, when I’ve sold him the deal and figure I can close the order over supper tonight and be back with my wife and kids by tomorrow night, I get a wire telling me to drop everything and be in Vancouver by lunchtime tomorrow. A big contract is going off the rails there and fast. So Buster must go in and save the day.” Spencer sighed, then sat upright in mock earnestness. “Hey, if you want forty or fifty trucks today I can give you a good discount. Feel like running a fleet?”

The man beside him laughed. “Sorry, no. I couldn’t use that many, I’m afraid. A bit outside my usual line of work.”

“What line of work is that?” asked Spencer.

“Medicine.”

“A doctor, eh?”

“Yes, a doctor. And therefore of no use to you in the disposal of trucks, I’m afraid. I couldn’t afford to buy one, let alone forty. Football is the only extravagance I can allow myself, and for that I’d travel anywhere, provided I could find the time. Hence my trip tonight.”

Leaning back on the headrest of his seat, Spencer said, “Glad to have you around, Doctor. If I can’t sleep you can prescribe me a sedative.”

As he spoke the engines thundered to full power, the whole aircraft vibrating as it strained against the wheel brakes.

The doctor put his mouth to Spencer’s ear and bellowed, “A sedative would be no good in this racket. I never could understand why they have to make all this noise before take-off.”

Spencer nodded; then, when after a few seconds the roar had subsided sufficiently for him to make himself heard without much trouble, he said, “It’s the usual run-up for the engines. It’s always done before the plane actually starts its take-off. Each engine has two magnetos, in case one packs in during flight, and in the run-up each engine in turn is opened to full throttle and each of the mags tested separately. When the pilot has satisfied himself that they are running okay he takes off, but not before. Airlines have to be fussy that way, thank goodness.”

“You sound as though you knew a lot about it.”

“Not really. I used to fly fighters in the war but I’m pretty rusty now. Reckon I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“Here we go,” commented the doctor as the engine roar took on a deeper note. A powerful thrust in the backs of their seats told them the aircraft was gathering speed on the runway; almost immediately a slight lurch indicated that they were airborne and the engines settled back to a steady hum. Still climbing, the aircraft banked steeply and Spencer watched the receding airport lights as they rose steadily over the wingtip.

“You may unfasten your safety belts,” announced the public address. “Smoke if you wish.”

“Never sorry when that bit’s over,” grunted the doctor, releasing his catch and accepting a cigarette. “Thanks. By the way, I’m Baird, Bruno Baird.”

“Glad to know you, Doc. I’m Spencer, plain George Spencer, of the Fulbright Motor Company.”

For some time the two men lapsed into silence, absently watching their cigarette smoke rise slowly in the cabin until it was caught by the air-conditioning stream and sucked away. Spencer’s thoughts were somber. There would have to be some kind of a showdown when he got back to head office, he decided. Although he had explained the position on the telephone to the local Winnipeg man before calling a taxi for the airport, that order would take some holding on to now. It would have to be a big show in Vancouver to justify this snafu. It might be a good idea to use the whole thing as a lever for a pay raise when he got back. Or better yet, promotion. As a manager in the dealer sales division, which the old man had often mentioned but never got around to, Mary and he, Bobsie and little Kit, could get out of the house they had and move up Parkway Heights. Or pay off the bills — the new water tank, school fees, installments on the Olds and the deep freeze, hospital charges for Mary’s last pregnancy. Not both, Spencer reflected broodingly; not both, even on manager’s pay.

Dr. Baird, trying to decide whether to go to sleep or to take this excellent opportunity to catch up on the airmail edition of the B.M.J., in fact did neither and found himself instead thinking about the small-town surgery he had abandoned for a couple of days. Wonder how Evans will cope, he thought. Promising fellow, but absurdly young. Hope to goodness he remembers that Mrs. Lowrie has ordinary mist, expect, and not the patent medicine fiddle-me-rees she’s always agitating for. Still Doris would keep young Evans on the right track; doctors’ wives were wonderful like that. Had to be, by jiminy. That was a thing Lewis would have to learn in due time: to find the right woman. The doctor dozed a little and his cigarette burnt his fingers, promptly waking him up.

The couple in the seats across the aisle were still engrossed in their sports papers. To describe Joe Greer was to describe Hazel Greer: a pair who would be hard to imagine. Both had the rosy skin and the keen, clear eyes of the open air, both bent over the closely printed sheets as if the secrets of the universe were there displayed. “Barley sugar?” asked Joe when the airline tray came around. “Uh-huh,” replied Hazel. Then, munching steadily,