United flight dispatch had first sent out its own search party, without success. Now airport management had taken over. Mel said, "That United flight finally took off, didn't it? Without food." Danny Farrow answered without looking up. "I hear the captain put it to the passengers. Told them it'd take an hour to get another truck, that they had a movie and liquor aboard, and the sun was shining in California . Everybody voted to get the hell out. I would, too." Mel nodded, resisting a temptation to take over and direct the search himself for the missing truck and driver. Action would be a therapy. The cold of several days, and dampness with it, had made Mel's old war injury ache again-a reminder of Korea which never left him-and he could feel it now. He shifted, leaning, letting the good foot take his weight. The relief was momentary. Almost at once, in the new position, the ache resumed. He was glad, a moment later, that he had not interfered. Danny was already doing the right thing-intensifying the truck search, pulling plows and men from the terminal area and directing them to the perimeter road. For the time being, the parking lots would have to be abandoned, and later there would be plenty of beefs about that. But the missing driver must be saved first. Between calls, Danny warned Mel, "Brace yourself for more complaints. This seaxch'Il block the perimeter road. We'll hold up all the other food trucks till we find the guy. 11 Mel nodded. Complaints were a stock-in-trade of an airport manager's job. In this case, as Danny predicted, there would be a flood of protests when other airlines realized their food trucks were not getting through, whatever the reason. There were some who would find it hard to believe that a man could be in peril of death from exposure at a center of civilization like an airport, but it could happen just the same. The lonelier limits of the airport were no place to wander without bearings on a night like this.