ATC RULES AND PROCEDURES 2 страница

"Oh, hell!" Mel's exclamation cut across the silence of the office.

He plodded in the fur-lined boots toward his desk. A glance at a typed reminder from his secretary confirmed what he had just recalled. Tonight there was another of his wife's tedious charity affairs. A week ago, reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend. It was a cocktail party and dinner (so the typed note said), downtown at the swank Lake Michigan Inn. What the charity was, the note didn't specify, and, if it had ever been mentioned, he had since forgotten. It made no difference, though. The causes with which Cindy Bakersfeld involved herself were depressingly similar. The test of worthiness---as Cindy saw it---was the social eminence of her fellow committee members.

Fortunately, for the sake of peace with Cindy, the starting time was late---almost two hours from now and in view of tonight's weather, it might be even later. So he could still make it, even after inspecting the airfield. Mel could come back, shave and change in his office, and be downtown only a little late. He had better warn Cindy, though. Using a direct outside line, Mel dialed his home number.

Roberta, his elder daughter, answered.

"Hi," Mel said. "This is your old man."

Roberta's voice came coolly down the line. "Yes, I know."

"How was school today?"

"Could you be specific, Father? There were several classes. Which do you want to know about?"

Mel sighed. There were days on which it seemed to him that his home life was disintegrating all at once. Roberta, he could tell, was in what Cindy called one of her snotty moods. Did all fathers, he wondered, abruptly lose communication with their daughters at age thirteen? Less than a year ago, the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel loved both his daughters deeply---Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby. There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage had survived. As to Roberta, he had known that as a teen-ager she would develop interests which he could neither share nor wholly understand. He had been prepared for this. What he had not expected was to be shut out entirely or treated with a mixture of indifference and condescension. Though, to be objective, he supposed the increasing strife between Cindy and himself had not helped. Children were sensitive.

"Never mind," Mel said. "Is your mother home?"

"She went out. She said if you phoned to tell you you have to be downtown to meet her, and for once try not to be late."

Mel curbed his irritation. Roberta was undoubtedly repeating Cindy's words exactly. He could almost hear his wife saying them.

"If your mother calls, tell her I might have to be a little late, and that I can't help it." There was a silence, and he asked, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes," Roberta said. "Is there anything else, Father? I have homework to do."

He snapped back, "Yes, there is something else. You'll change your tone of voice, young lady, and show a little more 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 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."

 

 

IN 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 girl, whose name was Patsy Smith, wiped reddened eyes with a large linen handkerchief which Tanya had given her. She spoke with difficulty, choking back more tears. "They wouldn't talk that way... so mean, rudely... at home... not to their wives."

"You mean passengers wouldn't?"

The girl nodded.

"Some would," Tanya said. "When you're married, Patsy, you may find out, though I hope not. But if you're telling me that men behave like adolescent boors when their travel plans get crossed up, I'll agree with you."

"I was doing my best... We all were... All day today; and yesterday... the day before... But the way people talk to you..."

"You mean they act as if you started the storm yourself. Especially to inconvenience them."

"Yes... And then that last man... Until him, I was all right..."

"What happened exactly? They called me when it was all over."

The girt was beginning to regain control of herself.

"Well... he had a ticket on Flight 72, and that was canceled because of weather. We got him a seat on 114, and he missed it. He said he was in the dining room and didn't hear the flight called."

"Flight announcements aren't made in the dining room," Tanya said. "There's a big notice saying so, and it's on all the menus."

"I explained that, Mrs. Livingston, when he came back from the departure gate. But he was still nasty. He was going on as if it were my fault he'd missed the flight, not his. He said we were all inefficient and half asleep."

"Did you call your supervisor?"

"I tried to, but he was busy. We all were."

"So what did you do?"

"I got the passenger a seat---on the extra section, 2122."

"And?"

"He wanted to know what movie was showing on the flight. I found that out, and he said he'd seen it. He got nasty again. The movie he'd wanted to see was on the first flight which was canceled. He said, could I get him another flight which was showing the same movie as the first one? All the time, there were other passengers; they were pressing up against the counter. Some were making remarks out loud about how slow I was. Well, when he said that about the movie, that was when I..." The girl hesitated. "I guess something snapped."

Tanya prompted, "That was when you threw the timetable?"

Patsy Smith nodded miserably. She looked as if she were going to cry again. "Yes. I don't know what got into me, Mrs. Livingston... I threw it right over the counter. I told him he could fix his own flight."

"All I can say," Tanya said, "is that I hope you hit him."

The girl looked up. In place of tears, there was the beginning of a smile. "Oh, yes; I did." She thought, then giggled. "You should have seen his face. He was so surprised." Her expression became serious. "Then, after that..."

"I know what happened after that. You broke down, which was a perfectly natural thing to do. You were sent in here to finish your cry, and now you have, you're going home in a taxi."

The girl looked bemused. "You mean... that's all?"

"Certainly it's all. Did you expect us to fire you?"

"I... I wasn't sure."

"We might have to," Tanya said, "much as we'd dislike it, Patsy, if you did the same thing again. But you won't, will you? Not ever."

The girl shook her head firmly. "No, I won't. I can't explain, but having done it just once is enough."

"That's the end of it, then. Except that you might like to hear what happened after you left."

"Yes, please."

"A man came forward. He was one of those in the line-up, and he said he heard, and saw, the whole thing. He also said he had a daughter the same age as you, and if the first man had talked to his daughter the same way he talked to you, he would personally have punched him in the nose. Then the second man---the one from the line-up---left his name and address, and said if the man you had been talking to ever made any kind of complaint, to let him know and he would report what really happened." Tanya smiled. "So, you see---there are nice people, too."

"I know," the girl said. "There aren't many, but when you do get one like that, who's nice to you, and cheerful, you feel you want to hug him."

"Unfortunately we can't do that, any more than we should throw timetables. Our job is to treat everyone alike, and be courteous, even when passengers are not."

"Yes, Mrs. Livingston."

Patsy Smith would be all right, Tanya decided. Apparently, she hadn't thought of quitting, as some airls did who suffered similar experiences. In fact, now that she was over her emotion, Patsy seemed to have the kind of resilience which would be helpful to her in future.

God knows, Tanya thought, you needed resilience---and some toughness---in dealing with the traveling public, whatever job you held.

Take Reservations.

Downtown in reservation departments, she was aware, personal pressures would be even greater than at the airport. Since the storm began, reservation clerks would have made thousands of calls advising passengers of delays and rearrangements. It was a job the clerks all hated because people whom they called were invariably bad-tempered and frequently abusive. Airline delays seemed to arouse a latent savagery in those affected by them. Men talked insultingly to women telephonists, and even people who at other times were courteous and mild-mannered, turned snarly and disagreeable. New York-bound flights were worst of all. Reservation clerks had been known to refuse the assignment of telephoning news of delay or cancellation to a flight load of passengers destined for New York, preferring to risk their jobs rather than face the torrent of invective they knew awaited them. Tanya had often speculated on what it was about New York which infected those headed there with a kind of medicine-dance fervor to arrive.

 

But, for whatever reasons, she knew there would be resignations among airline staffs---in Reservations and elsewhere---when the present emergency was over. There always were. A few nervous breakdowns could be counted on, too, usually among the younger girls, more sensitive to passengers' rudeness and ill humor. Constant politeness, even when you were trained for it, was a strain which took a heavy toll.

She was glad, though, that Patsy Smith would not be among the casualties.

There was a knock at the outer door. It opened, and Mel Bakersfeld leaned in. He was wearing fleece-lined boots and carrying a heavy topcoat. "I was coming by," he told Tanya. "I can drop back later, if you like."

"Please stay." She smiled a welcome. "We've almost finished."

She watched him as he walked to a chair across the room. He looked tired, Tanya thought.

She switched her attention back, filled in a voucher, and handed it to the girl. "Give this to the taxi dispatcher, Patsy, and he'll send you home. Have a good night's rest, and we'll expect you back tomorrow, bright and breezy."

When the girl bad gone, Tanya swung her chair around to face Mel's. She said brightly, "Hullo."

He put down a newspaper he had been glancing at, and grinned. "Hi!"

"You got my note?"

"I came to thank you for it. Though I might have made it here without." Gesturing to the door through which the girl had gone, he asked, "What was all that about? Battle fatigue?"

"Yes." She told him what had happened.

 

Mel laughed. "I'm tired, too. How about sending me off in a taxi?"

 

Tanya looked at him, inquiringly. Her eyes---a bright, clear blue---had a quality of directness. Her head was tilted, and an overhead light reflected red highlights from her hair. A slim figure, yet with a fullness which the trim airline uniform heightened... Mel was conscious, as at other times, of her desirability and warmth.

"I might consider it," she said. "If the taxi goes to my place, and you let me cook you dinner. Say, a Lamb Casserole."

He hesitated, weighing conflicting claims, then reluctantly shook his head. "I wish I could. But we've some trouble here, and afterward I have to be downtown." He got up. "Let's have coffee, anyway."

"All right."

Mel held the door open, and they went out into the bustling, noisy main concourse.

There was a press of people around the Trans America counter, even greater than when Mel had arrived. "I mustn't take long," Tanya said. "I've still two hours more on duty."

As they threaded their way through the crowds and increasing piles of luggage, she moderated her normally brisk pace to Mel's slower one. He was limping rather more than usual, she noticed. She found herself wanting to take his arm and help him, but supposed she had better not. She was still in Trans America uniform. Gossip spread fast enough without helping it actively. The two of them had been seen a good deal lately in each other's company, and Tanya was sure that the airport rumor machine---which operated like a jungle telegraph with IBM speed---had already taken note. Probably it was assumed that she and Mel were bedding down together, though, as it happened, that much was untrue.

They were headed for the Cloud Captain's Coffee Shop in the central lobby.

"About that Lamb Casserole," Mel said. "Could we make it another night? Say, the day after tomorrow?"

The sudden invitation from Tanya had surprised him. Although they had had several dates together---for drinks or dinner---until now she had not suggested visiting her apartment. Of course, going there could be for dinner only. Still... there was always the possibility that it might not.

Lately, Mel had sensed that if their meetings away from the airport continued, there could be a natural and obvious progression. But he had moved cautiously, instinct warning him that an affair with Tanya would be no casual romance but a deeply emotional involvement for them both. A consideration, also, was his own problems with Cindy. Those were going to take a lot of working out, if they could be worked out at all, and there was a limit to the number of complications a man could handle at one time. It was a strange commentary, he thought, that when a marriage was secure it seemed easier to manage an affair than when the same marriage was shaky. Just the same, Tanya's invitation seemed too enticing to pass up.

"The day after tomorrow is Sunday," she pointed out. "But I'll be off duty, and if you can manage it, I'll have more time."

Mel grinned. "Candies and wine?"

He had forgotten it would be Sunday. But he would have to come to the airport anyway because, even if the storm moved on, there would be aftereffects. As to Cindy, there had been several Sundays when she had been out, herself, without an announced reason.

Momentarily, Mel and Tanya separated as she dodged a hurrying, florid-faced man, followed by a redcap with a loaded luggage cart, topped by golf clubs and tennis rackets. Wherever that load was going, Tanya thought enviously, it was a long way south.

"Okay," she said when they rejoined. "Candles and wine."

As they entered the coffee shop, a pert hostess recognized Mel and ushered him, ahead of others, to a small table at the rear, marked RESERVED, which airport officials often used. About to sit down, he stumbled slightly and grasped Tanya's arm. The observant hostess flicked her eyes over them both with a half-smile. Rumor machine, stand by for a bulletin, Tanya thought.

Aloud, she said, "Did you ever see such crowds? This has been the wildest three days I remember."

Mel glanced around the packed coffee shop, its bedlam of voices punctuated by the clatter of dishes. He nodded toward the outer door through which they could both see a moving, surging swarm of people. "If you think this is a big horde tonight, wait until the civil version of the C-5A goes into service."

"I know---we can barely cope with the 747s; but a thousand passengers arriving all at once at a check-in counter... God help us!" Tanya shuddered. "Can you imagine what it'll be like when they collect their baggage? I don't even want to think about it."

 

"Nor do a good many other people---who ought to be thinking about it, right now." He was amused to find that their conversation had already drifted into aviation. Airplanes and airlines held a fascination for Tanya, and she liked talking about them. So did Mel, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed her company.

 

"Which people aren't thinking?"

"Those who control policy on the ground---airport and air traffic. Most are acting as if today's jets will fly forever. They seem to believe that if everybody keeps quiet and still, the new, big airplanes will go away and not bother us. That way we needn't have ground facilities to match them."

Tanya said thoughtfully, "But there's a lot of building at airports. Wherever you go, you see it."

Mel offered her a cigarette and she shook her head negatively. He lit one for himself before answering.

"Mostly the building going on is patchwork---changes and additions to airports built in the 1950s or early '60s. There's little that's farseeing. There are exceptions---Los Angeles is one; Tampa, Florida, and Dallas---Fort Worth are others; they'll be the first few airports in the world ready for the new mammoth jets and supersonics. Kansas City, Houston, and Toronto look good; San Francisco has a plan, though it may get sunk politicatly. In North America there's not much else that's impressive."

"How about Europe?"

"Europe is routine," Mel said, "except for Paris---the new Nord airport to replace Le Bourget will be among the finest yet. London is the kind of inefficient mess which only the English can create." He paused, considering. "We shouldn't knock other countries, though; back home is bad enough. New York is frightening, even with changes being made at Kennedy; there simply isn't enough airspace above New York---I'm thinking of traveling there by train in future. Washington, D.C., is floundering---Washington National's a Black Hole of Calcutta; Dulles was a giant step sideways. And Chicago will wake up one day to find it let itself get twenty years behind." He stopped, considering. "You remember a few years ago, when the jets first started flying---what conditions were like at airports which had been designed for DC-4s and Constellations."

"I remember," Tanya said. "I worked at one. On normal days you couldn't move for the crowds; on busy days you couldn't breathe. We used to say it was like holding the World Series in a sand lot."

"What's coming in the 1970s," Mel predicted, "is going to be worse, far worse. And not just people congestion. We'll be choking on other things, too."

"Such as what?"

"Airways and traffic control for one, but that's another whole story. The really big thing, which most airport planning hasn't caught on to yet is that we're moving toward the day---fast---when air freight business will be bigger than passenger traffic. The same thing's been true with every form of transportation, starting with the birchbark canoe. To begin with, people are carried, plus a little freight; but before long, there's more freight than people. In airline business we're already closer to that than is generally known. When freight does get to be top dog---as will happen in the next ten years or so---a lot of our present airport ideas will be obsolete. If you want a sign of the way things are moving, watch some of the young men who are going into airline management now. Not long ago, hardly anybody wanted to work in air freight departments; it was backroorn stuff; passenger business had the glamour. Not any more! Now the bright boys are heading for air freight. They know that's where the future and the big promotions lie."

Tanya laughed. "I'll be old-fashioned and stick with people. Somehow freight..."

A waitress came to their table. "The special's off, and if we get many more people in here tonight, there won't be much else either."

They ordered coffee, Tanya cinnamon toast, and Mel a fried egg sandwich.

When the waitress had gone, Mel grinned. "I guess I started to make a speech. I'm sorry."

"Maybe you need the practice." She regarded him curiously. "You haven't made many lately."

"I'm not president of the Airport Operators Council any more. I don't get to Washington as much, or other places either." But it was not the whole reason for not making speeches and being less in the public eye. He suspected Tanya knew it.

Curiously, it was a speech of Mel's which had brought them together to begin with. At one of the rare interline meetings which airlines held, he had talked about coming developments in aviation, and the lag in ground organization compared with progress in the air. He had used the occasion as a dry run for a speech he intended to deliver at a national forum a week or so later. Tanya had been among the Trans America contingent, and next day had sent him one of her lower case notes: