Hank Hastings tried not to sound serious, but he felt serious. He knew more about the situation than Helen knew.

At the end of his flying shift, with his hot sucking date with Carlotta all arranged, he had first made sure he had the extra Conference One key that had been made for the convenience of the redecorators.

Then he had strolled out of the cockpit and down the aisle between the rows of passengers, a striking figure in blue with four gold stripes on his sleeve, and his Chief Pilot's hat, heavy with gold braid, at a rakish angle on his nuggety chestnut hair.

He had a big jaw and a big grin, that he used with effect. Strolling among all those people who felt he held their lives in his hands, he cooed to babies and encouraged little boys and girls who wanted to grow up to be airline pilots. Also little and not-so little girls who wanted to become hostesses.

"Always a place for the right young woman on Wanderlust," he said, beaming, judging the promise in young tits.

He also made sure to be cordial to women who looked as though no one had noticed them, save with loathing, for the past forty years. This was good for business.

When he passed vivid little Carlotta, he gave no sign of recognition. But their eyes met and he nodded slightly, then looked significantly down toward Conference One, where she was due to suck him off with great style. Just then he saw another good looker in a window seat. She read the airline's travel magazine, WANDERLUST OR BUST, and paid no attention to the four-striper's promenade.

Hank paused. That woman looked familiar. His memory put her into the skirted Wanderlust hostess uniform. Wanderlust hostesses wore skirts, rather than the more practical slacks, because they were supposed to look as feminine as possible.

Well, if this gal had once been a Wanderlust hostess, she must have nice tits. But she had chosen to hide them beneath a tweedy tailleur.