the weatherman said, "everything looks good. There are scattered disturbances across southern Europe, as you can see, but at your altitudes they shouldn't bother you. Rome is clear and sunny, and should stay that way for several days."
Captain Demerest leaned over the southern Europe map. "How about Naples?"
The weatherman looked puzzled. "Your flight doesn't go there."
"No, but I'm interested."
"It's in the same high pressure system as Rome. The weather will be good."
Demerest grinned.
The young forecaster launched into a dissertation concerning temperatures, and high and low pressure areas, and winds aloft. For the portion of the flight which would be over Canada he recommended a more northerly course than usual to avoid strong headwinds which would be encountered farther south. The pilots listened attentively. Whether by computer or human calculation, choosing the best altitudes and route was like a game of chess in which intellect could triumph over nature. All pilots were trained in such matters; so were company weather forecasters, more attuned to individual airline needs than their counterparts in the U. S. Weather Bureau.
"As soon as your fuel load permits," the Trans America forecaster said, "I'd recommend an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet."
The second officer checked his graphs; before N-731-TA could climb that high, they would have to burn off some of their initially heavy fuel load.
After a few moments the second officer reported, "We should be able to reach thirty-three thousand around Detroit."
Anson Harris nodded. His gold ballpoint pen was racing as he filled in a flight plan which, in a few minutes' time, he would file with air traffic control. ATC would then tell him whether or not the altitudes he sought were available and, if not, what others he might have. Vernon Demerest, who normally would have prepared his own flight plan, glanced over the form when Captain Harris finished, then signed it.
All preparations for Flight Two, it seemed, were going well. Despite the storm, it appeared as if The Golden Argosy, pride of Trans America, would depart on time.
It was Gwen Meighen who met the three pilots as they came aboard the aircraft. She asked, "Did you hear?"
Anson Harris said, "Hear what?"
"We're delayed an hour. The gate agent just had word."
"Damn!" Vernon Demerest said. "Goddam!"
"Apparently," Gwen said, "a lot of passengers are on their way, but have been held up---I guess because of the snow. Some have phoned in, and Departure Control decided to allow them extra time."
Anson Harris asked, "Is boarding being delayed too?"
"Yes, Captain. The flight hasn't been announced. It won't be for another half-hour, at least."
Harris shrugged. "Oh, well; we might as well relax." He moved toward the flight deck.
Gwen volunteered, "I can bring you all coffee, if you like."
"I'll get coffee in the terminal," Vernon Demerest said. He nodded to Gwen. "Why don't you come with me?"
She hesitated. "Well, I could."
"Go ahead," Harris said. "One of the other girls can bring mine, and there's plenty of time."
A minute or two later, Gwen walked beside Vernon Demerest, her heels clicking as she kept pace with his strides down the Trans America departure wing. They were heading for the main terminal concourse.
Demerest was thinking: the hour's delay might not be a bad thing, after all. Until this moment, with the essential business of Flight Two to think about, he had pushed all thoughts of Gwen's pregnancy from his mind. But, over coffee and a cigarette, there would be a chance to continue the discussion they had begun earlier. Perhaps, now, the subject which he had not broached before---an abortion---could be brought into the open.
PART TWO Chapter Eight
NERVOUSLY, D. O. Guerrero lit another cigarette from the stub of his previous one. Despite his efforts to control the motion of his hands, they trembled visibly. He was agitated, tense, anxious. As he had earlier, while putting his dynamite bomb together, he could feel rivulets of perspiration on his face and beneath his shirt.
The cause of his distress was time---the time remaining between now and the departure of Flight Two. It was running out, remorselessly, like sand from an hourglass; and much---too much---of the sand was gone.
Guerrero was in a bus en route to the airport. Half an hour ago the bus had entered the Kennedy Expressway, from which point, normally, there would have been a swift, fifteen-minute ride to Lincoln International. But the expressway, like every other highway in the state, was impeded by the storm, and jammed with traffic. At moments the traffic was halted, at other times merely inching along.