Airport Read Online Free Page A

respect. Furthermore, we’ll end this conversation when I’m good and ready.”
    “If you say so, Father.”
    “And stop calling me Father!”
    “Very well, Father.”
    Mel was tempted to laugh, then supposed he had better not. He asked, “Is everything all right at home?”
    “Yes. But Libby wants to talk to you.”
    “In a minute. I was just going to tell you–because of the storm I *may not be home tonight. There’s a lot happening at the airport. I’ll probably come back and sleep here.”
    Again a pause, as if Roberta was weighing whether or not she could get away with a smart answer: So what else is new? Apparently she decided not. “Will you speak to Libby now?”
    “Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie.”
    “Goodnight.”
    There was an impatient shuffle as the telephone changed hands, then Libby’s small breathless voice. “Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!”
    Libby was always breathless as if, to a seven-year-old, life were excitingly on the run and she must forever keep pace or be left behind.
    “Let me think,” Mel said. “I know–you had fun in the snow today.”
    “Yes, I did, But it wasn’t that.”
    “Then I can’t guess. You’ll have to tell me.”
    “Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all the good things we think will happen next month.”
    He thought affectionately: he could understand Libby’s enthusiasm. To her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which were not were brushed aside and speedily forgotten. He wondered how much longer her happy innocence would last.
    “That’s nice,” Mel said. “I like that.”
    “Daddy, Daddy! Will you help me?”
    “If I can.”
    “I want a map of February.”
    Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes seemed more expressive than conventional words. It occurred to him that he could use a map of February himself.
    “There’s a calendar in my desk in the den.” Mel told her where to find it and heard her small feet running from the room, the telephone forgotten. It was Roberta, Mel assumed, who silently hung up.
     
    FROM THE general manager’s office suite, Mel walked onto the executive mezzanine which ran the length of the main terminal building. He carried the heavy topcoat with him.
    Pausing, he surveyed the thronged concourse below, which seemed to have become even busier within the past half-hour. In waiting areas, every available seat was occupied. Newsstands and information booths were ringed by crowds, among them many military uniforms. In front of all airline passenger counters were line-ups, some extending around corners out of sight. Behind the counters, ticket agents and supervisors, their normal numbers swelled by colleagues from earlier shifts retained on overtime, had schedules and passage coupons spread out like orchestral scores.
    Delays and reroutings which the storm had caused were taxing both scheduling and human patience. Immediately below Mel, at Braniff ticketing, a youngish man with long, blond hair and a yellow scarf was proclaiming loudly, “You’ve the effrontery to tell me I must go to Kansas City to get to New Orleans. You people are rewriting geography! You’re mad with power!”
    The ticket agent facing him, an attractive brunette in her twenties, brushed a hand over her eyes before answering with professional patience, “We can route you directly, sir, but we don’t know when. Because of the weather, the longer way will be faster and the fare is the same.”
    Behind the yellow-scarfed man, more passengers with other problems pressed forward urgently.
    At the United counter, a small pantomime was being played. A would-be passenger–a well-dressed businessman–leaned forward, speaking quietly. By the man’s expression and actions, Mel Bakersfeld could guess what was being said. “I would very much like to get on that next flight.”
    “I’m sorry, sir, the flight is fully booked. There’s also a long standby…” Before the