Free Airport by Arthur Hailey Page B

conviction that no one else’s ability as a pilot was superior to his own. Colleagues who received this brand of treatment raged inwardly, but had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one another that when Demerest’s own time came they would give him the meanest, toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with a single consistent result–Vernon Demerest turned in a flawless performance which could not be faulted.
    This afternoon, characteristically, Demerest prefaced his check session by telephoning Captain Anson Harris at home. “It’ll be a bad night for driving,” Demerest said without preamble. “I like my crew to be punctual, so I suggest you allow plenty of time to get to the airport.”
    Anson Harris, who in twenty-two unblemished years with Trans America had never been late for a single flight, was so outraged, he almost choked. Fortunately, before Harris could get any words out, Captain Demerest hung up.
    Still fuming, but to make absolutely sure that Demerest would not catch him out, Captain Harris had arrived at the airport almost three hours ahead of flight time instead of the usual one hour. Captain Demerest, fresh from his stint with the Airlines Snow Committee, had encountered Harris in the Cloud Captain’s Coffee Shop. Demerest was wearing a sports jacket and slacks; he kept a spare uniform in his airport locker and planned to change into it later. Captain Harris, a graying, grizzled veteran whom many younger pilots addressed as “sir,” was in Trans America uniform.
    “Hi, Anson.” Vernon Demerest dropped into an adjoining seat at the counter. “I see you took my good advice.”
    Captain Harris’s grip on his coffee cup tightened slightly, but all he said was, “Good evening, Vern.”
    “We’ll start the pre-flight briefing twenty minutes earlier than usual,” Demerest said. “I want to check your flight manuals.”
    Thank God, Harris thought, his wife had gone through his manuals only yesterday, inserting the very latest amendments. But he had better check his mail slot in the dispatch office. This bastard was likely to fault him for not making an amendment published only this afternoon. To give his hands–which were itching–something to do, Captain Harris filled and lit his pipe.
    He was aware of Vernon Demerest looking at him critically.
    “You’re not wearing a regulation shirt.”
    For a moment, Captain Harris could not believe his colleague was serious. Then, as he realized he was, Harris’s face suffused a deep plum red.
    Regulation shirts were an irritant to Trans America pilots, as they were to pilots of other airlines. Obtainable through company sources, the official shirts cost nine dollars each, and were often ill fitting, their material of dubious quality. Though contrary to regulations, a much better shirt could be purchased independently for several dollars less, with the difference in appearance scarcely noticeable. Most pilots bought the unofficial shirts and wore them. Vernon Demerest did too . On several occasions Anson Harris had heard Demerest speak disdainfully of the company’s shirts and point to the superior quality of his own.
    Captain Dernerest motioned to a waitress for coffee, then reassured Harris, “It’s all right. I won’t report on your wearing a non-reg shirt here. As long as you change it before you come on my flight.”
    Hold on! Anson Harris told himself. Dear God in heaven, give me strength not to blow, which is probably what the ornery son-of-a-bitch wants. But why? Why?
    All right. All right, he decided; indignity or not, he would change his unofficial shirt for a regulation one. He would not give Demerest the satisfaction of having a single miniscule check point on which to fault him. It would be difficult to get a company shirt tonight. He would probably have to borrow one–exchange shirts with some other captain or first officer. When he told them why, they would hardly believe him. He hardly