attempt to reach Lincoln International, Mel had broken free instantly from the crowd of Meadowood residents. With Tanya beside him, he headed for the elevators which would take him to the basement garage two floors below, and his official airport car. Mel's place now was on runway three zero, if necessary to take charge. Shouldering his way through the crowd in the main concourse, he had caught sight of the Tribune reporter and said tersely, "Come with me." He owed Tomlinson a favor in return for the reporter's tip-off about Elliott Freemantle---both the legal contract form and the lawyer's mendacious statements later, which Mel had been able to repudiate. When Tomlinson hesitated, Mel snapped, "I haven't time to waste. But I'm giving you a chance you may be sorry for not taking." Without further questioning, Tomlinson fell in step beside him.
Now, as they drove, Mel accelerating ahead of taxiing aircraft where he could, Tanya repeated the substance of the news about Flight Two.
"Let me get this straight," Tomlinson said. "There's only one runway long enough, and facing the right direction?"
Mel said grimly, "That's the way it is. Even though there should be two." He was remembering bitterly the proposals he had made, over three successive years, for an additional runway to parallel three zero. The airport needed it. Traffic volume and aircraft safety cried out for implementation of Mel's report, particularly since the runway would take two years to build. But other influences proved stronger. Money had not been found, the new runway had not been built. Nor had construction---despite Mel's further pleas---yet been approved.
With a good many projects, Mel could swing the Board of Airport Commissioners his way. In the case of the proposed new runway, he had canvassed them individually and received promises of support, but later the promises were withdrawn. Theoretically, airport commissioners were independent of political pressure; in fact, they owed their appointments to the mayor and, in most cases, were political partisans themselves. If pressure was put on the mayor to delay an airport bond issue because of other projects, similarly financed and more likely to swing votes, the pressure penetrated through. In the case of the proposed new runway it not only penetrated, but three times had proved effective. Ironically, as Mel remembered earlier tonight, triple-decking of the airport's public parking lots---less necessary, but more visible---had not been held up.
Briefly, and in plain words, which until now he had reserved for private sessions, Mel described the situation, including its political overtones.
"I'd like to use all that as coming from you." Tomlinson's voice held the controlled excitement of a reporter who knew he was on to a good story. "May I?"
There would be the devil to pay after it appeared in print, Mel realized; he could imagine the indignant telephone calls from City Hall on Monday morning. But someone should say it. The public ought to know how serious the situation was.
"Go ahead," Mel said. "I guess I'm in a quoting mood."
"That's what I thought." From the far side of the car the reporter regarded Mel quizzically. "If you don't mind my saying so, you've been in great form tonight. Just now, and with the lawyer and those Meadowood people. More like your old self. I haven't heard you speak out like that in a long while."
Mel kept his eyes on the taxiway ahead, waiting to pass an Eastern DC-8, which was turning left. But he was thinking: Had his demeanor of the past year or two, the absence of his old fiery spirit, been so obvious that others had noticed it also?
Beside him, close enough so that Mel was conscious of her nearness and warmth, Tanya said softly, "Ali the time we're talking... about runways, the public, Meadowood, other things... I'm thinking about those people on Flight Two. I wonder how they're feeling, if they're afraid."
"They're afraid, all right," Mel said. "If they've any sense, and provided they know what's happening. I'd be afraid, too."
He was remembering his own fear when he had been trapped in the sinking Navy airplane, long ago. As if triggered by memory, he felt a surge of pain around the old wound in his foot. In the past hour's excitement he had adjusted to ignoring it, but as always, with tiredness and overstrain, the effect forced itself on him in the end. Mel compressed his lips tightly and hoped that soon the seizure would lessen or pass.
He had been waiting for another gap in ground-to-ground radio exchanges. As one