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ticket agent could complete his sentence, he glanced up. The passenger had laid his briefcase on the counter in front of him. Gently, but pointedly, he was tapping a plastic baggage tag against a corner of the case. It was a 100,000-Mile Club tag, one of those United issued to its favored friends–an inner elite which all airlines had helped create. The agent’s expression changed. His voice became equally low. “I think we’ll manage something, sir.” The agent’s pencil hovered, crossed out the name of another passenger–an earlier arrival whom he had been about to put on the flight–and inserted the newcomer’s name instead. The action was unobserved by those in line behind.
    The same kind of thing, Mel knew, went on at all airline counters everywhere. Only the naÏve or uninformed believed wait lists and reservations were operated with unwavering impartiality.
    Mel observed that a group of new arrivals–presumably from downtown–was entering the terminal. They were beating off snow from their clothing as they came in, and judging from their appearance, it seemed that the weather outside must be worsening. The newcomers were quickly absorbed in the general crowds.
    Few among the eighty thousand or so air travelers who thronged the terminal daily ever glanced up at the executive mezzanine, and fewer still were aware of Mel tonight, high above them, looking down. Most people who thought about airports did so in terms of airlines and airplanes. It was doubtful if many were even aware that executive offices existed or that an administrative machine–unseen, but complex and employing hundreds–was constantly at work, keeping the airport functioning.
    Perhaps it was as well, Mel thought, as he rode the elevator down again. If people became better informed, in time they would also learn the airport’s weaknesses and dangers, and afterward fly in and out with less assurance than before.
    On the main concourse, he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. “Evening, Mr. Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?”
    No matter how busy the airport became, Mel thought, there would always be time for gossip. He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya’s had been linked already.
    “Yes,” he said. “I was.”
    The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY .
    “You’ll find her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld. We just had a bit of a crisis here. She’s taking care of it.”
     
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03
    I N A SMALL private lounge which was sometimes used for VIPs, the young girl in the uniform of a Trans America ticket agent was sobbing hysterically.
    Tanya Livingston steered her to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” Tanya said practically, “and take your time. You’ll feel better afterward, and when you’re ready we can talk.”
    Tanya sat down herself, smoothing her trim, tight uniform skirt. There was no one else in the room, and the only sound–apart from the crying–was the faint hum of air-conditioning.
    There was fifteen years or so difference in age between the two women. The girl was not much more than twenty, Tanya in her late thirties. Watching, Tanya felt the gap to be greater than it was. It came, she supposed, from having been exposed to marriage, even though briefly and a long time ago–or so it seemed.
    She thought: it was the second time she had been conscious of her age today. The first was while combing her hair this morning; she had seen telltale strands of gray among the short-cropped, flamboyant red. There was more of the gray than last time she had checked a month or so ago, and both occasions were reminders that her forties–by which time a woman ought to know where she was going and why–were closer than she liked to think about. She had another thought: in fifteen years from now, her own daughter would be the same age as the girl who was crying.
    The