«I'm sorry, sir, the flight is fully booked. There's also a long standby . . ." Before the ticket agent could complete his sentence, he glanced up. The passenger had laid his briefcase on the counter in front of him. Gently, but pointedly, he was tapping a plastic baggage tag against a corner of the case. It was a 100,000-Mile Club tag, one of those United issued to its favored friendsan inner elite which all airlines had helped create. The agent's expression changed. His voice became equally low. "I think we'll manage something, sir." The agent's pencil hovered, crossed out the name of another passenger-an earlier arrival whom he had been about to put on the flight-and inserted the newcomer's name instead. The action was unobserved by those in line behind. The same kind of thing, Mel knew, went on at all airline counters everywhere. Only the naYve or uninformed believed wait lists and reservations were operated with unwavering impartiality. Met observed that a group of new arrivals-presumably from downtown-was entering the terminal. They were beating off snow from their clothing as they came in, and judging from their appearance, it seemed that the weather outside must be worsening. The newcomers were quickly absorbed in the general crowds. Few among the eighty thousand or so air travelers who thronged the terminal daily ever glanced up at the executive mezzanine, and fewer still were aware of Mel tonight, high above them, looking down. Most people who thought about airports did so in terms of airlines and airplanes. It was doubtful if many were even aware that executive offices existed or that an administrative machine-unseen, but complex and employing hundreds-was constantly at work, keeping the airport functioning.
