plates and other obvious identification quietly removed. Engine serial numbers could not be removed, of course, but the time and trouble involved in tracing them was never worth while. It was simpler for the airport to do what the ex-owner would not---pay for the car to be taken away and junked, and as quickly as possible sitice it was occupying revenue parking space. Recently, at Lincoln International, the monthly bill for old car disposal had become formidable.
Through the shifting throng in the concourse, Mel caught sight of Captain Vernon Demerest.
"Aside from that," Ordway said genially, "we're in great shape for your Meadowood visitors. I'll let you know when they get here." With a friendly nod, the policeman moved on.
Vernon Demerest---in Trans America uniform, his bearing confident as usual---was coming Mel's way. Mel felt a surge of irritation, remembering the adverse snow committee report which he had heard about, but still hadn't seen.
Demerest seemed disinclined to stop until Mel said, "Good evening, Vernon."
"Hi." The tone was indifferent.
"I hear that you're an authority, now, on snow clearance."
"You don't have to be an authority," Vernon Demerest said brusquely, "to know when there's a lousy job being done."
Mel made an effort to keep his tone moderate. "Have you any idea how much snow there's been?"
"Probably better than you. Part of my job is studying weather reports."
"Then you're aware we've had ten inches of snow on the airport in the past twenty-four hours; to say nothing of what was there already."
Demerest shrugged. "So clear it."
"It's what we're doing."
"Goddamned inefficiently."
"The maximum recorded snowfall here---ever," Mel persisted, "was twelve inches in the same period. That was an inundation, and everything closed down. This time we've come near to it, but we haven't closed. We've fought to stay open, and we've managed it. There isn't an airport anywhere that could have coped better than we have with this storm. We've had every piece of snow-moving machinery manned around the clock."
"Maybe you haven't got enough machinery."
"Good God, Vernon! Nobody has enough equipment for the kind of storm we've had these past three days. Anybody could use more, but you don't buy snow-clearing machinery for occasional maximum situations---not if you've any economic sense. You buy for optimums, then when an emergency hits, you use everything you have, deploying it to best advantage. That's what my men have been doing, and they've done damned well!"
"Okay," Demerest said, "you have your opinion, I have mine. I happen to think you've done an incompetent job. I've said so in my report."
"I thought it was a committee report. Or did you elbow the others out so you could take a personal stab at me?"
"How the committee works is our business. The report is what matters. You'll get your copy tomorrow."
"Thanks a lot." His brother-in-law, Mel noticed, had not bothered to deny that the report was directed personally. Mel went on, "Whatever it is you've written won't change anything, but if it gives you satisfaction, it'll have a nuisance value. Tomorrow I'll have to waste time explaining how ignorant---in some areas---you really are."
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 overr 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