its passengers had by now been directed to Concourse "D," gate forty-seven. In a minute or two, Tanya decided, in case there were any last-minute passenger problems during boarding, she would go to gate forty-seven herself.
D. O. GUERRERO heard the announcement of Flight Two while in line at the insurance counter in the terminal central concourse.
It was Guerrero, appearing hurried and nervous, whom Captain Vernon Demerest had seen arrive there, carrying his small attache case which contained the dynamite bomb.
Guerrero had come directly from the bus to the insurance counter, where he was now fifth in line. Two people at the head of the line were being dealt with by a pair of girl clerks who were working with maddening slowness. One of the clerks---a heavy-chested blonde in a low-cut blouse---was having a prolonged conversation with her present customer, a middle-aged woman. The clerk was apparently suggesting that the woman take out a larger policy than had been asked for; the woman was being indecisive. Obviously, it would take at least twenty minutes for Guerrero to reach the head of the line, but by then Flight Two would probably be gone. Yet hehad to buy insurance; he had to be aboard.
The p.a. announcement had said that the flight was being boarded at gate forty-seven. Guerrero should be at the gate now. He felt himself trembling. His hands were clammy on the attache case handle. He checked his watch again, for the twentieth time, comparing it with the terminal clock. Six minutes had gone by since the announcement of Flight Two. The final call... the airplane doors closing... could come at any moment. He would have to do something.
D. O. Guerrero pushed his way roughly to the head of the line. He was past caring about being noticed, or offending. A man protested, "Hey, buddy, we're waiting too." Guerrero ignored him. He addressed the bigbreasted blonde. "Please... my flight has been called---the one to Rome. I need insurance. I can't wait."
The man who had spoken before interjected, "Then go without. Another time, get here sooner."
Guerreio was tempted to retort: There won't be another time. Instead, he addressed himself to the blonde again. "Please!"
To his surprise, she smiled warmly; he had been expecting a rebuff. "You did say Rome?"
"Yes, yes. The flight's been called."
"I know. She smiled again. "Trans America Flight Two. It is called The Golden Argosy."
Despite his anxiety, he was aware that the girl had a sexy European accent, probably Hungarian.
D. O. Guerrero made an effort to speak normally. "That's right."
The girl turned her smile on the others who were waiting. "This gentleman really does not have much time. I'm sure you will not mind if I oblige him first."
So much had gone wrong tonight that he could scarcely believe his good luck. There was some muttered grumbling in the line of people waiting, but the man who had done the talking until now was silent.
The girl produced an insurance application form. She beamed at the woman she had been dealing with. "This will only take a moment." Then she turned her smile again on D. O. Guerrero.
For the first time he realized how effective the smile was, and why there had been no real protest from the others. When the girl looked at him directly, Guerrero---who was seldom affected by women---had the feeling he was going to melt. She also had the biggest tits he had ever seen.
"My name is Bunnie," the girl said in her European accent. "What is yours?" Her ballpoint pen was poised.
AS A VENDOR of airport flight insurance, Bunnie Vorobioff was a remarkable success.
She had come to the United States, not from Hungary as D. O. Guerrero had supposed, but from Glauchau in the southern portion of East Germany, via the Berlin Wall. Bunnie (who was then Gretchen Vorobioff, the homely, flat-chested daughter of a minor Communist official and a Young Communist herself) crossed the wall at night with two male companions. The young men were caught by searchlights, shot and killed; their bodies hung for twenty-four hours on barbed wire, in public view. Bunnie avoided the searchlights and small arms fire and survived, survival being a quality which seemed to come to her naturally.
Later, on arrival as a U.S. immigrant at age twenty-one, she had embraced American free enterprise and its goodies with the enthusiasm of a religious convert. She worked hard as a hospital aide, in which she had some training, and moonlighted as a waitress. Into the remaining time she somehow crammed