Free Flight by GINGER STRAND Page A

terrorists bombed it.”
    “Those were the days of constant hijackings,” Bart added. “You youngsters probably don’t even remember that.”
    Will nodded. “I flew every piece of jet equipment TWA ever bought,” he couldn’t help saying, “from the Convair 880 on up.”
    The Kid grinned. “I knew I was working with a pro,” he said. “Even before the end of ground school, Will here is flying the thing like an angel. Got his total engine failure yesterday and brought her in like there wasn’t a thing wrong.”
    Will didn’t know what to say. It was a pretty landing, but he couldn’t tell what the Kid was playing at.
    “Will’s up there with the best,” Bart agreed. “You watch and learn, young man.”
    Kid Flyboy nodded and started buttering his bread with great care. “So the first thing he does when the second engine goes is drop his gear.” The Kid was acting casual, but suddenly, Will got it. Kid wanted to know if dropping gear was the right thing to do, so he could show off in his own engine failure. His heart sank. He busied himself with his own piece of bread and tried to act as if the conversation didn’t interest him at all.
    “You don’t say,” Bart answered, and he looked at Will, a slight furrow of concern bisecting his brow. “Every guy has his own way of flying,” he said, looking around the room in a way that ended the conversation.
    A flash of anger sparked through Will. Surely Bart knew he did the right thing, knew the only way to judge whether you’ll make it dead-stick or not is to dirty up the plane right away. Drop your gear at the last minute, and you’re in for a nasty surprise. He didn’t want to say it, though, because that would educate the undeserving Kid. He picked up his water glass and looked at Bart over the top of it.
    Bart surveyed the restaurant far too casually before turning back to the Kid and grinning. “How do you like those new computers?” he asked, and then Will saw it. Bart was on his side. Bart didn’t want to tell the Kid, either, so he was letting the Kid think Will was wrong. Will wanted to laugh out loud. He concentrated on buttering his slice of bread. Good old Bart. We old guys stick together, Will thought. They can’t get ahead of us yet.
    “It’s really coming down, isn’t it?” Leanne says.
    Will starts at her voice. No one has spoken for at least fifteen minutes. The thud of the wet highway against the van’s tires, the regular thump of the wipers, the flat gray light—everything has combined to hypnotize them into drowsy silence. Even Carol looks up in surprise, as if she has forgotten the presence of the young people.
    “It’s only passing through,” she tells them, although they haven’t asked for reassurance. “Everything will be fine by Saturday.”
    “I’m surprised at how flat it is here,” Kit says. “I didn’t notice that last time.” Will looks at him in the rearview mirror. Kit’s gazing out at the fields with a small squint. When he moved in with Leanne, she told them he was a filmmaker of some sort. Perhaps he’s seeing it all as a film, visualizing a landscape shot.
    “You should see the Great Plains states,” Will says. “Now that’s flat. Michigan is actually hilly.” He waves a hand toward the landscape. “Glacial terrain. That makes us lucky in water, too. We have the Great Lakes. The Plains states don’t have lakes. There’s not one natural lake in the state of Missouri.” He’s surprised by the strength of his desire to defend his little corner of the world.
    “That’s right,” Kit says, seeming to like the topic. “I read something about that. There’s an aquifer underground in the Plains, right? That’s where the water goes.”
    “The Ogallala Aquifer.” Will tightens his hands on the steering wheel. “But it’s drying up.” He feels himself warming to the task of explaining how things are.
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Out there,” Will tells him, “they irrigate on a center-point