big airliner out. Meanwhile, the men now excavating the twin trenches, which were beginning to take shape, would have to be relieved in shifts, to warm themselves in the crew bus, still parked on the taxiway.
It was ten-thirty now. With luck, he thought, he might be home in bed-with Marie-soon after midnight.
To bring the prospect nearer, also to keep warm, Patroni thrcw himself even harder into shoveling.

11

In the Clot d Captain's Coffee Shop, Captain Vernon Demerest oi-dered tea for Gwen, black coffee for him self. Coffee-as it was supposed to do-helped keep him alert; lie would probably down a dozen more cups between here and Rome. Although Captain Harris would be doing most of the flying of Flight Two tonight, Demerest had no intention of relaxing mentally. In the air, he rarely did. He was aware, as were most veteran pilots, that aviators who died in their beds of old age were those who throughout their careers had been ready to cope insrantly with the unexpected.
"We're both unusually quiet," Gwen said in her gentle English voice. "We scarcely said a word coming into the terminal."
It was just a few minutes since they left the departure concourse, after announcement of the one hour flight delay. They had managed to snare a booth near the rear of the coffee shop, and now Gwen was looking into the mirror of her compact, patting her hair into place where it flowed superbly from beneath the smart Trans