them down the runway. He thought: We damned well might need them! Hang on, Gwen!
They were still floating, their speed scarcely diminished.
Then the aircraft was down. Heavily. Still traveling fast.
Swiftly, Harris raised wing spoilers and slammed thrust reverse levers upward. With a roar, the jet engines reversed themselves, their force-acting as a brake -now exerted in an opposite direction to the airplane's travel.
They had used three quarters of the runway and were slowing, but not enough.
Harris called, "Right rudder!" The aircraft was veering to the left. With Demerest and Harris shoving together, they maintained direction. But the runway's forward limit-with piled snow and a cavern of darkness beyond-was coming up fast.
Anson Harris was applying toe brakes hard. Metal was straining, rubber screaming. Still the darkness neared. Then they were slowing . . .
gradually slowing more ...
Flight Two came to rest three feet from the runway's end.

17

By the radar room clock, Keith Bakersfeld could see that another half hour of his shift remained. He didn't care.
He pushed back his chair from the radar console, unplugged his headset, and stood up. He looked around him, knowing it was for the last time. "Hey!" Wayne Tevis said. "What gives?"
"Here," Keith told him. "Take this. Somebody else may need it." He thrust the headset at Tevis, and went out.
Keith knew he should have done it years ago.
He felt a strange lightheadedness, almost a sense of relief. In the corridor outside he wondered why.
It was not because he had guided in Flight Two; he bad no illusions about that. Keith had performed competently, but anyone else on duty could have done as well, or better. Nor-as he had known in advance-did anything done tonight wipe out, or counterbalance, what had gone before.
It didn't matter, either, that he had overcome his mental block of ten minutes ago. Keith hadn't cared at the time; he simply wanted out.
Nothing that had happened since had changed his mind.