Airport

Mel had spoken heatedly, not bothering to conceal his anger, and for the first time Demerest grinned. “Got under your skin a little, eh? Well, that’s too bad about the nuisance value and your precious time. I’ll remember it tomorrow while I’m enjoying Italian sunshine.” Still grinning, he walked away.

He had not gone more than a few yards when the grin changed to a scowl.

The cause of Captain Demerest’s displeasure was the central lobby insurance booth — tonight, clearly doing a brisk business. It was a reminder that Demerest’s victory over Mel Bakersfeld had been picayune, a pinprick only. A week from now, the adverse snow committee report would be forgotten, but the insurance counter would still be here. So the real victory was still with his smooth, smug brother-in-law, who had defeated Demerest’s arguments in front of the Board of Airport Commissioners, and made him look a fool.

Behind the insurance counters two young girls — one of them the big-breasted blonde — were rapidly writing policies for applicants, while another half dozen people waited in line. Most of those waiting were holding cash in their hands — representing more quick profits for the insurance companies, Demerest reflected sourly — and he had no doubt the automatic vending machines in various locations in the terminal were just as busy.

He wondered if any of his own Flight Two passengers-to-be were among those in line. He was tempted to inquire and, if so do some proselytizing of his own; but he decided not. Vernon Demerest had tried the same thing once before — urging people at an insurance counter not to buy airport flight insurance, and telling them why; and afterward there had been complaints, resulting in a sharply worded reprimand to him from Trans America management. Though airlines did not like airport insurance vending any more than aircrews did, the airlines were subject to differing pressures which forced them to stay neutral. For one thing, airport managements claimed they needed the insurance companies’ revenue; if they didn’t get it from that source, they pointed out, maybe the airlines would have to make up the difference in higher landing fees. For another, airlines were not eager to offend passengers, who might resent not being able to buy insurance in a way they had become used to. Therefore the pilots alone had taken the initiative — along with the abuse.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Captain Demerest had paused for a few seconds, watching the insurance booth activity. Now he saw a newcomer join the queue — a nervous-looking man — spindly and stoop-shouldered, and with a small, sandy mustache. The man carried a small attache case and seemed to be worrying about the time; he cast frequent glances at the central lobby clock, comparing it with his own watch. He was clearly unhappy about the length of the line-up ahead of him.

Demerest thought disgustedly: the man had left himself with too little time; he should forget about insurance and get aboard his flight.

Then Demerest reminded himself: he should be back on the flight deck of Flight Two. He began to walk quickly toward the Trans America departure concourse; at any moment now the first boarding announcement would be made. Ah! — there it was.

“Trans America Airlines announces the departure of Flight Two, The Golden Argosy , for Rome …”

Captain Demerest had stayed in the terminal longer than he intended. As he hurried, the announcement, clear and audible above the babel in the concourses, continued.

12

“… Flight Two, The Golden Argosy , for Rome. The flight is now ready for boarding. All passengers holding confirmed reservations …”

An airport flight departure announcement meant diverse things to those who heard it. To some, it was a routine summons, a prefix to another tedious, work-oriented journey which — had free choice been theirs — they would not have made. For others, a flight announcement spelled a beginning of adventure; for others still, the nearing of an end — the journey home. For some it entailed sadness and parting; for others, in counterpoint, the prospect of reunion and joy. Some who heard flight announcements heard them always for other people. Their friends or relatives were travelers; as to themselves, the names of destinations were wistful not-quite-glimpses of faraway places they would never see. A handful heard flight announcements with fear; few heard them with indifference. They were a signal that a process of departure had begun. An airplane was ready; there was time to board, but no time to be tardy; only rarely did airliners wait for individuals. In a short time the airplane would enter man’s unnatural element, the skies; and because it was unnatural there had always been, and would forever remain, a component of adventure and romance.

There was nothing romantic about the mechanics of a flight announcement. It originated in a machine which in many ways resembled a jukebox, except that push buttons instead of coins were required to actuate it. The push buttons were on a console in Flight Information Control — a miniature control tower (each airline had its own F.I.C. or equivalent) — located above the departure concourse. A woman clerk pushed the buttons in appropriate sequence; after that the machinery took over.

Almost all flight announcements — the exceptions were those for special situations — were pre-recorded on cartridge tapes. Although, to the ear, each announcement seemed complete in itself, it never was, for it consisted of three separate recordings. The first recording named the airline and flight; the second described the loading situation, whether preliminary, boarding, or final; the third recording specified gate number and concourse. Since the three recordings followed one another without a pause, they sounded — as they were intended to — continuous.

People who disliked quasi-human automation were sometimes cheered when flight announcement machines went wrong. Occasionally part of the machinery would jam, with such results as passengers for half a dozen flights being misdirected to the same gate. The resultant debacle, involving a thousand or more confused, impatient passengers, was an airline agent’s nightmare.

Tonight, for Flight Two, the machinery worked.

“… passengers holding confirmed reservations please proceed to gate forty-seven, the Blue Concourse ‘D’.”

By now, thousands in the terminal had heard the announcement of Flight Two. Some who heard were more concerned than others. A few, not yet concerned, would be before the night was done.

More than a hundred and fifty Flight Two passengers heard the announcement. Those who had checked in, but had not reached gate forty-seven, hastened toward it, a few recent arrivals still knocking snow from their clothing as they went.

Senior Stewardess Gwen Meighen was pre-boarding several families with small children when the announcement echoed down the boarding walkway. She used the flight deck interphone to notify Captain Anson Harris, and prepared herself for an influx of passengers within the next few minutes. Ahead of the passengers, Captain Vernon Demerest ducked aboard and hurried forward, closing the flight deck door behind him.

Anson Harris, working with Second Officer Cy Jordan, had already begun the pre-flight check.

“Okay,” Demerest said. He slipped into the first officer’s right-hand seat, and took the check list clipboard. Jordan returned to his regular seat behind the other two.

Mel Bakersfeld, still in the central concourse, heard the announcement and remembered that The Golden Argosy was Vernon Demerest’s flight. Mel genuinely regretted that once again an opportunity to end, or even lessen, the hostility between himself and his brother-in-law had ended in failure. Now, their personal relationship was — if possible — worse than before. Mel wondered how much of the blame was his own; some, certainly, because Vernon seemed to have a knack for probing out the worst in Mel, but Mel honestly believed that most of their quarrel was of Vernon’s making. Part of the trouble was that Vernon saw himself as a superior being, and resented it when others didn’t. A good many pilots whom Mel knew — especially captains — felt that way about themselves.

Mel still seethed when he remembered Vernon, after the airport commissioners’ meeting, asserting that people like Mel were “ground-bound, desk-tied, with penguins’ minds.” As if flying an airplane, Mel thought, were something so damned extra-special compared with other occupations!

Just the same, Mel wished that tonight for a few hours he was a pilot once again, and was about to leave —