Perhaps it was as well, Mel thought, as he rode the elevator down again. If people became better informed, in time they would also learn the airport's weaknesses and dangers, and afterward fly in and out with less assurance than before. On the main concourse, he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. "Evening, Mr. Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?" No matter how busy the airport became, Mel thought, there would always be time for gossip. He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya's had been linked already. "Yes," be said. "I was." The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY. "You'll find her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld. We just had a bit of a crisis here. She's taking care of it." 3 In a small private lounge which was sometimes used for VIPs, the young girl in the uniform of a Trans America ticket agent was sobbing hysterically. Tanya Livingston steered her to a chair. "Make your- self comfortable," Tanya said practically, "and take your time. You'll feel better afterward, and when you're ready we can talk." Tanya sat down herself, smoothing her trim, tight uniform skirt. There was no one else in the room, and the only sound-apart from the crying-was the faint hum of air-conditioning. There was fifteen years or so difference in age between the two women. The girl was not much more than twenty, Tanya in her late thirties. Watching, Tanya felt the gap to be greater than it was. It came, she supposed, from having been exposed to marriage, even though briefly and a long time ago-or so it seemed. She thouorht: it was the second time she had been conscious of her age today. The first was while combing her hair this morning; she had seen telltale strands of gray among the short-cropped, flamboyant red.