[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories August 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mr. Bradbury was angry. Fog or no fog, the airlines should stay onschedule. Lack of planning, foresight, sense of responsibility—thatwas the trouble. He felt like cursing.
"Damn!" said Mr. Bradbury.
But a voice on the public address system announced that Flight Eighteenfor Chicago was ready to leave. He raised his considerable bulk fromthe chair in the dimly lit waiting room of the airfield and checkedhis watch. No way to run a business. He shook his head and snortedindignantly.
Such a snort is worthy of note. It was an utterance that could bemade only by a corporation lawyer in the prime of life. It was anasal explosion connoting wealth, confidence, and a singular lack ofimagination. It was a snort fed on T-bone steaks, good Scotch whisky,and bicarbonate of soda.
Mr. Bradbury peered myopically around the waiting room. A few minutesago, while washing his face in the men's room, he had broken hisglasses in the wash bowl. Although he hated to admit it to anyone, hecould see next to nothing without those thick lenses. The room was anunpleasant blur, but he was able to determine that he was the onlywould-be passenger in the waiting room. The others were drinking coffeein the airfield's restaurant.
"Flight Eighteen," said the voice on the speaker. "Flight Eighteen."
Mr. Bradbury shrugged his heavy shoulders, picked up his bag andbriefcase, and stepped out the door into the fog.
The mist hung thick and low over the airfield, cloaking the damp nightair in a morbid blanket of gloom. Mr. Bradbury blinked sullenly intothe shroud-like vapor.
"What the hell!" he swore. Can't even see the plane, and, he thought,floundering unhappily into a wire gate where in blazes are the rest ofthe passengers? Are they going to fly through this stuff?
"This way, sir," said a feminine voice, and he saw a dim, uniformedfigure in front of him.
The hostess. Glad someone knows where he's going, he thought, and thenhe followed the girl toward the now visible lights of the plane.
"Watch your step, sir!" she said as he walked up the runway.
He grunted. Making these things steeper all the time, he thought.
The hostess was a pretty dark-eyed young thing, plump in the right sortof way. Mr. Bradbury leaned back in the soft, cushioned seat. It feltgood.
"Fasten your safety belt, sir." She helped him with it.
"And I do hope you'll be comfortable," she said in a soft, low voice.He caught the glint of black eyes, jet and sparkling.
He smiled at her appreciatively. "I'm sure I will," he grinnedresisting a sudden impulse to pinch her cheek. The girl walked down theaisle toward the door again, hips swaying provocatively.
A young blossom ready for the plucking, thought Mr. Bradbury. Asucculent young partridge ready for the—Mr. Bradbury chuckled tohimself happily on thinking of the many women he had known in his fiftyyears.
He looked around the plane. No passengers, except for a pleasantlooking young man sitting across the aisle from him, a young manthoroughly engrossed in a small, paper-bound book, the title of whichMr. Bradbury could not discern.
He wished he had his glasses, for he was getting a slight headache. Thelawyer leaned back in the soft seat and closed his eyes. Well, headacheor no headache, life was good, and he was glad he was alive. Then Mr.Bradbury fell asleep.
When he awoke the plane was in