A/n : And an update of my weirdest story ever! I have made a few changes to the first chapter (the changes concern the buying of Tickets in the Airport itself – I didn't like the metaphor that was being used there).

As ever, reviews are greatly appreciated – and comments on the forum are welcome!

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The man seemed to be less-worried by and far more comfortable with the presence of the Stewardess than the girl had been. “I think I've got the last of my things in order,” he said, “and I want to make sure I don't try to take them on the plane.” His voice, where I would have expected it to be proud and confident, was humble and pleasing. The Stewardess beamed at him.

“Well, Sir, there is the box – just put them in there and we'll see about getting you through into the departure lounge.” She did not ask to see his Ticket – it was obvious, sticking out of his top pocket. He nodded at her, licked his lips and nervously grasped the first thing – it was a horseshoe. I really couldn't see how it could possibly fit through the small hole in the funnel, but he twisted and turned it and it went through. He picked up another object and pushed that at the funnel. It didn't seem to want to go through. “You know,” he panted, “it's dashed funny – I've sat there and thought about how I'm going to put that in there, but now that I'm here I just can't manage it!” The Stewardess was at his side in an instant.

“May I help you, Sir?” she asked. “I've seen ones like this before.” For a second it looked as if he might refuse, embarrassed by letting someone else touch and see his things, but then he nodded. The Stewardess' nimble hands twisted the object in a way which was (to me, but obviously not to the man) obvious and it popped through. “Thank you,” he said.

Each of the objects went in turn through the funnel and fell into the box below. The final thing – a carriage-clock with a very annoying tick-tock-tick – did not seem to want to go through. It was a gaudy, ugly thing, and he seemed to be ashamed of it, trying to hide it from the Stewardess and myself. “Sir,” she said pleadingly, “if you'll let me . . .”

“No!” he snapped, trying to hide the hideous gold thing with his hands. “No! I don't want you to see it!” He was almost in tears, having come so close. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he turned to the Stewardess. “Can I come back later? You'll keep the other things and get rid of them for me?”

“Of course you can, Sir,” she said with perfect sympathy on her face. “And of course we will.”

“Can I help him?” I asked her abruptly. He turned to me with a haunted look on his face.

“If he will let you, yes,” she said simply. I stepped forward. “Let me see it,” I said. He did not move. “I think I used to have one just like this – perhaps even a bit worse. I think I know how to deal with it.” He did not move. “May I?”

It seemed to take a tremendous effort for him to remove his hands from the clock. But he did, swallowing heavily as he did so. “I'm sorry, it's very ugly – I don't know why I bought it.” I turned the clock in my hands – I had, indeed, owned one very similar to this before I got rid of it.

With a click it lined up just right in the funnel and fell through into the box below. “I think that they were popular for a few years there – most people I knew had one, I think,” I said.

The clock landed in the black box with a clunk. The Stewardess kicked the box and it rolled on castors towards a small trapdoor. There it tripped up and flung its contents through the portal. There was a grinding as if of a large garbage disposal and then the box rolled back to its place, now empty. The man sighed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he really smiled. “I thought I was the only one who had one like that!” he exclaimed, reaching for his ticket.

The Stewardess took it from him. “Oh, I could tell you stories about far worse things than that!” she laughed. She glanced at the ticket. “Well, that all seems in order, Sir – go right on through.” She stepped to one side and gestured him towards the metal-detector arch. “Enjoy the flight.” He nodded at her and then turned to me, wringing my hand earnestly.

“Well, thank you very much!” he said warmly. And then he seemed to consider something. “Erm, do you want me to help you with your things at all?” he asked. He looked me over and stopped himself. “Oh! I see that you are a Diplomat!” he exclaimed, “I'm very sorry!”

I looked at him askance, and then the Stewardess pointed at the bag I was carrying in my right hand. I almost started when I realized I was carrying it – I supposed I had always known I was doing so, but it was a shock to realize it formally. I looked at the bag – it was brown leather, neat and well-buckled. It was clearly mine, for it had my name printed on a tag attached to it. And the word “DIPLOMAT” was printed in bold Roman capitals underneath my name. I glanced at the Stewardess.

“That's a Diplomatic bag, Sir,” she explained, seeing my confusion. “Is this your first time here, Sir?” I nodded. “Oh, well then, Sir, do you know where you are supposed to be going and what you are supposed to be seeing? Do you have a Guide?” I shook my head.

“I don't think so,” I said, “I really don't have any notion of what I'm doing here at all.” The Stewardess nodded and motioned me to stand aside. I did so, and she followed me. As we moved, the man walked through the Checkpoint. The lights flashed green and the turnstile rolled. He moved through into the departure lounge – I could no longer see him, but an indescribable joy overtook me. As the Stewardess and I walked further on an older man came to the Checkpoint and tried to walk through. The gate buzzed red and he cursed loudly as his thighs hit the turnstile bar.

“Well, Sir,” said the Stewardess, “that's a Diplomatic Bag, you see. Someone must have packed it for you so that you can carry your things easily around the Airport. You can even take that on the plane – and even to the Destination if you are supposed to go there. You'd fly on a Diplomatic Ticket, of course, Sir,” she explained.

“Should I open it up?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Oh no, Sir – I wouldn't do that. You'd never get the things back in there. You said this was your first time here?” I nodded. “What is it that you do, Sir? For a living, I mean.”

“I'm a writer.”

“Of what?” she asked. I looked at her somewhat blankly. “There are lots of types of writers, Sir – that might not be why they gave you Diplomatic immunity. What sort of things do you write?”

“Professionally, I write Christian apologetics. Privately . . .” I grinned sourly as the irony of the situation and this conversation struck me. “Metafictional allegories, mostly.” She smiled warmly.

“Well, Sir – and I could be wrong – but I think that we've just found out why you're here. I think that it would be best if you just watched what was going on for a while. You might be inspired, Sir – I think there's plenty of grist for your mill, in a manner of speaking.” She beamed at me, and I nodded.

“Look,” I said, “what about . . . have you got time to answer some questions?” She nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Well, what about that girl? I mean, if she doesn't have a Ticket is she really scuppered?” She shook her head.

“Oh, no, Sir – not necessarily. We advise everyone to have a Ticket before coming to the Airport, but for some people it's just not possible. The Travel Agencies never get to them, you see. A sad business – although the Travel Agencies are opening up new branches every day. And sometimes the Travel Agents and their helpers don't do such a good job – the directives from the Commander are very clear, but they are not always carried through perfectly.” She lowered her voice and pointed a couple of arches along. “And there are some Travel Agencies who are selling Tickets under false presences; they say they entitle the Passenger to all sorts of things that they really don't.” I took a step closer and listened.

It was a tall man, weighed down with a whole mass of things. I wondered how he could possibly manage to stand, such was the number of them. He was remonstrating with one of the Stewardess – just as striking as the one I was speaking with. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I've got a Ticket and I demand to be let through! This is ridiculous!” He pulled his Ticket from his jacket pocket and shoved it into her face. “See! Just take a look at that, missy!” The Stewardess carefully took it and examined it carefully.

“Well, Sir,” she said delicately, “there are a number of issues. Firstly, this isn't actually a valid Ticket . . .” She got no further before the man yelled in her face.

“What do you mean, it's not a valid Ticket?” he shouted. “I paid for this fair and square, I bought it from my local Travel Agent! How can you tell me it's not valid?”

“Well, Sir,” explained the Stewardess, “you are normally supposed to buy your Ticket through an accredited Travel Agent – although there are exceptions, of course.” She pointed out some detail of text on the Ticket. “As you can see, this Ticket was issued for this price, and by this Travel Agency. Now, as you know, the Commander-in-Chief founded up the original Travel Agency to give Passengers Tickets. This Ticket was sold by a different Travel Agency – one which wasn't founded by Him – and, furthermore, the price you paid for it wasn't actually the one the Commander set up.” She looked at him. “I'm sorry, Sir, but it's not valid. However . . .”

She got no further. “Listen here, missy!” he snapped. “I got that ticket fair and square, I paid just what everyone else at that Travel Agency was paying. I don't fall for all that nonsense about only being able to get a Ticket by going through the river – I said I wanted a Ticket, and I told everyone in the Travel Agent's office that, too! I don't even think you need to go to a Travel Agency – you can just buy a Ticket yourself!” The Stewardess nodded vigorously.

“That was just what I was about to ask, Sir. If you'll let me . . .” She reached for a telephone that stood nearby and spoke quietly into it for some minutes. I couldn't hear the conversation, but at the end of it the Stewardess put down the receiver and smiled broadly at the man. “Good news, Sir,” she said brightly. “The Commander has said that he will honor your Ticket anyway.” He grunted and made to push past her. She stopped him with a delicate cough. “You'll want to leave that here, Sir,” she said. He looked at her as if she were mad.

“I've just about had enough of you!” he snapped. “First you say my Ticket isn't valid, and then you say that it is, and now you tell me you can't let me in without leaving my things behind! This Ticket entitles me to a single trip to the Destination – that's what was promised to me when I bought it and that's what I'll get! It never said anything about having to leave stuff and hang about in the bloody Hall and going through Checkpoints!” The Stewardess' smile was beautiful but hard – like a rose made of steel.

“Well, Sir,” she said silverly, “as I said before, your Ticket wasn't actually technically valid. The Commander is allowing you to fly because you were ignorant of the proper purchasing procedure. But you can't fly with all those things – you have to leave them here. You won't need them at the Destination.” The man simply blustered.

“Look here, I demand to see someone in authority – I paid for that Ticket and I want my rights. Let me see your manager!” The Stewardess was still smiling, and there was no hint of a threat in her – but there was simple danger in her eyes.

“Do you really want you rights, Sir?” she asked in a voice like diamond. “Do you really want to get what you deserve? Remember that you paid a very low price for that Ticket – a lot lower than many others, and certainly much less than it is really worth. So, I ask you again, shall I call for my manager?” I turned back to the Stewardess by my side.

“So, there's only one price you can pay for a Ticket?” I asked. She nodded, but in a manner which suggested it was more complex than it seemed.

“Well, normally, yes,” she explained, “but that's not the full story. The Commander issues Tickets; He's not limited by them. See, there are some Travel Agencies who lack the subtleties of it – they say that there is only one price and if you haven't paid that price then you can't buy one. And, most of the time, those are the Travel Agencies who claim you get what you might call an excess baggage allowance for the Ticket. And they usually charge the wrong price.” She sighed. “And then there are others – they are those Travel Agencies who say that you can get a Ticket for pretty much anything. I see a lot of those – all sorts of Tickets. Post-It notes with the work 'TIKET' written on with crayon. The works.”

“But what about the girl?” My mind kept dragging back to her. “What about people who don't have any sort of Ticket?” The Stewardess shook her head.

“It comes down to the question of whether or not they had the opportunity to buy one – even for those people who have the right sort of Ticket issued by one of the newer Travel Agencies for which they didn't pay the right price. The question which always has to be asked – and which only the Commander can answer – is, did they have the chance to get the right sort of Ticket? And did they have the opportunity to pay? If they did, then I'm afraid they can't fly.”

“Let's say they didn't,” I suggested. “What about people who never even saw a Travel Agency?”

“Or those for whom the local branch did a horrible job of advertising the Destination?” she suggested with a grin. “Don't forget that – it's more common than you think. A lot of people who already have Tickets can be very off-putting sometimes. Well, take a look over there.” She pointed at a few arches in the other direction. There was a woman standing there, weighed down with many things. One of the Pilots – and this was my first chance to see one at anything approaching a close distance, and he was even more impressive than I had suspected – was helping her to feed the things into the funnel. A Stewardess came forward and asked for her Ticket. The woman looked totally puzzled.

“Ticket?” she asked. “I didn't know anything about any Ticket. Can I get one now?” she asked. The Stewardess nodded.

“I'll have to check – make sure that you couldn't have bought one before you got to the Airport, Ma'am.” The Stewardess was on the 'phone in a moment, and after a minute she said to the woman breezily. “Well, the Commander says that's just fine.” She paused and then asked a seemingly innocuous question. “Would you like a Ticket?”

“How do they buy a Ticket here?” I asked the Stewardess beside me. She turned to me and shook her head.

“They don't,” she answered shortly. “You can't buy a Ticket at the Airport. We're not a Travel Agency.” I was puzzled. “So, how do they . . . ?” I left the question unfinished. She smiled again.

“Oh, we give them a Ticket. No Passenger who comes to the Airport has anything to buy a Ticket with – it wouldn't be fair to deny Passengers who couldn't buy a Ticket before they came to the Airport a Ticket simply because now they can't buy one.” She shrugged. “If people want to go to the Destination and they didn't know about it, we can usually give them a Ticket.” The man with the invalid Ticket didn't like the sound of this – and I didn't like the sound of him. He had overheard our conversation and had come towards us, drawing himself up to his full height (which was much more than that of the Stewardess) and getting in her face.

“Here, missy!” he snapped (I was beginning to find that term of address very annoying, although the Stewardess didn't seem to mind. She wasn't young enough to warrant it, I felt – although as I looked at her I wondered. Still, she was a seemingly-slight little thing and he was looming over her, threatening and bellicose. A faint smile played on her face as I thought that and she slashed her eyes towards me with heavenly amusement.) “Are you in charge here?”

“Of the Hall?” The idea seemed faintly ridiculous to her. “Yes, I daresay that you could say that – as much as anyone is,” she added as a coda. “How can I help you?”

“You can repeat what you just said to this gentleman here!” he snapped. “What's all this rubbish about giving Tickets to people who don't have them? I bought mine fair and square and I paid a fair price for it and I don't think . . .”

“Then you shouldn't talk,” the Stewardess said abruptly. The man hemmed and hawed, shocked by her perceived rudeness. I snickered behind my hand and he turned to me with such a comical look of anger that, God forgive me, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Before he could say a word, she lay a gloved finger – very long and very white – against his working lips. “Sssh!” she said. “Keep your mouth closed or your foot will slip in – again. Trust me, you don't want that to happen.” He tried to speak. “I said sssh!” she articulated with a shade more urgency. “I really mean it.” He fell silent, petulantly crossing his arms and looking at this chit of a girl in front of him. “Okay, Sir,” she said, “let's go over this – because I really think you need to make your complaint clear to me. What is wrong with the price you paid for the Ticket? Is there some problem with the fact my colleague contacted the Commander and that the Commander decided to honor what was – officially – an invalid Ticket?” He shook his head – it was clear that he thought this girl didn't understand.

“No, there's no problem with that, but . . .”

“Then what's the problem, Sir?” she asked brightly. “Put your things in the box – it might take a while. And when that's done you can fly.” The Passenger was angry.

“But I paid for my Ticket!”

“And you have one, Sir, which we're honoring.” She knotted her beautiful brows. “I don't mean to be obtuse, Sir, but what's the problem?” The Passenger sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes.

“You're just going to give them to people who don't have them if they want to go to the Destination?” he asked sarcastically, as if the concept was beyond his grasp. She smiled, a little icily.

“Well, it's not quite that simple but – even if it were – what's the problem? Don't you want everyone to get to the Destination?” It was a loaded question, and I thought that he would have to back down and realize just how unreasonable and interfering he was being. He didn't.

“I think that only people who bought the right sort of Ticket should be allowed to fly! People who don't have a Ticket – well, they had their chance to get one!”

“And what about those who didn't have a chance to get one?” I asked, surprising even myself. The Passenger looked at me. “Really, what about them?”

“Regardless.” The Stewardess' voice was the crack of a whip. “What you think – and, with the greatest of respect, Sir, I use the word purely as an act of charity – is irrelevant. The Commander runs the airline and He founded the Travel Agency. What other people paid – or did not pay – for their Tickets is none of your business. The fact that others may get a Ticket cheaper than you did does not change the fact that you still paid – like everyone does – far less than it is worth.” She paused and glanced meaningfully at the things he was carrying. “And I would remind you, Sir, that while you are sitting her arguing with me you are not putting your things in the box – something you need to do before you fly.” The Passenger brandished the Ticket in her face.

“Look here, missy!” he snapped. “Can't you read?” She looked at him with an air of polite inquiry and then pulled a pair of square-framed glasses from her top pocket and carefully fitted them on her nose. She peered over them at him as he wilted. “Read that,” he said in a more respectful voice. “It says there that I will just go straight through to the plane – and now you're telling me that I have to wait in the Hall! I think that's just . . .” He blustered for a few more moments while she just looked at him with a level gaze. His voice trailed off. She took the Ticket from him, looked it over carefully for a second. Very deliberately, she took off her glasses, misted one lens with her breath and polished it with the dapper little kerchief she was wearing around her neck. She folded them and slipped them back into her pocket.

“Well, Sir,” she said in a patient voice which made me squirm with embarrassment for him, but which he simply seemed to find infuriating, “as my colleague told you, that isn't a valid Ticket. Now, that's unfortunate for you – it's meant that you've got a lot more things to get rid of, and some of them might not even fit. However, the Commander has chosen to honor that Ticket. But you must understand, Sir,” here her smiled grew just a little wider, “that when the Commander chooses to honor the Ticket He honors it as if it were one of His own Tickets – He does not have to honor the promises made by people other than Him.” She paused. “Frankly, Sir, the people who sold you that Ticket had no right to make those promises.” The Passenger didn't look as if he were even listening. I would have expected the Stewardess to get angry and exasperated, but she didn't. She handed him his Ticket back and smiled again – I liked her smile, it was genuine and compassionate and made me want to make her happy. “If you're not going to put some things in the box, Sir,” she said flatly, “I'm going to have to ask you to move along and allow someone else to come forward.” Grumbling and muttering that it wasn't fair he moved away into the milling crowd. I turned to the Stewardess – a thought had struck me.

“If someone doesn't know about the Tickets – and maybe even doesn't know about the Destination – then how do they know what not to pack? I mean, the Travel Agency tells them what to pack, doesn't it? What about people who've never seen a branch of the Travel Agency or met a Travel Agent?” She smiled gently again.

“Well, the Travel Agency says that you're not supposed to pack anything – which is quite right, because no-one can fly to the Destination carrying anything. Still,” she continued, “everyone knows – everyone, even those who don't know about the Destination from their Travel Agency – the general things that you really shouldn't pack – stuff that you just can't get rid of in the Airport. That's pretty much obvious. You don't need to be told in order to know that – you just need to think.” She gestured at a man trying to unobtrusively fit a harpsichord into a funnel. I noticed he was one of the men with a luggage cart. “I mean, look at that. I ask you . . .” She shook her head.

I knotted my brows and changed my tack. “All this stuff about buying a Ticket – you said to that Passenger that he paid a lot less than his Ticket is worth. Isn't the Commander really just giving them out for free? How can anyone buy one?” She shook her head.

“He doesn't give them out for free – if you haven't paid all that you can afford for your Ticket, then it's probably not the real deal. I can't stand these bargain basement Travel Agencies with their low fares and their all-you-can-eat buffets. It's marketing hype, and I really hope – for their sake – that they don't know what sort of lies they are peddling. Anyway.” I grinned at her – I was really beginning to like her, direct and engaging. “You're right – you can never pay the real cost of the Ticket – the Commander heavily subsidizes them. But you have to pay something – otherwise how could you say that you really wanted to go to the Destination? It's no good just saying that you'd like to go.”

“But what about those people who don't know about the Destination?” I asked. “They're never going to buy a Ticket, and they're certainly going to bring things to the Airport. I don't know – it just seems as if a lot turns on ignorance.” The Stewardess nodded, more engaged and animated than I might have suspected.

“That's just the point – everything turns on ignorance. The Commander invented Tickets – he can give them out for free. He's not about to do that if someone has spent their whole life avoiding Travel Agencies – that's not how it works.” I didn't seem to understand, and she sighed again. “Look, there is a world of difference between not knowing about the Destination but still trying to pack light according to the general principles of sensible packing, regardless of whether or not one thinks there is a journey coming up, and not knowing and chucking everything and the kitchen sink in there. At that point, even if you had known about the Destination, you're not packing as if you want to go there, are you? Everyone knows what you really shouldn't pack, in the most general terms.” She pointed to a box at her feet. “Not everything fits in one of those, you know – people come here with a luggage cart have to stay in the Hall. Even if they do have a Ticket.”

“But it's still better to have a Ticket, right?” I asked, returning to my earlier point. I wanted a simple answer to a complex question. She laughed.

“Oh, of course! My life would be so much easier if everyone had a valid Ticket bought for the right price from the first Travel Agency.” She shrugged. “That's why the Commander set it up, and why He's still the CEO and why He still ratifies all its business decisions. He wants to make sure that everyone has a fair chance to buy a genuine Ticket.” I nodded, thinking I understood. “Thank you,” I said, beginning to move away.

“Take care, Sir,” she called after me. “I'm sure the Commander will have sent down a Guide for you – one of the Stewardesses or a Pilot perhaps. You just look out for them.”

I nodded at her and stepped back into the crowd of Passengers. I was scanning the crowd for another person carrying a Diplomatic bag like mine – but I couldn't see anyone. But as I looked I saw a man who looked distressed and concerned; he was frantically patting his pockets, turning them out, working through his wallet. He had a luggage cart, heavily-laden with baroque furniture, an elephant's foot wastepaper basket and many other sundry items. I walked over to him. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“I can't find my Ticket!” he hissed in an agony of panic. “I know I had it – I remember buying it. And now I can't find it at all!” He continued to frantically search his clothes.

I noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the floor – two crumpled pieces of paper, in fact. Two pieces which, when put back together, would make up a single piece which had been torn in two. A Ticket. It was ripped in half, the two pieces stapled together on top of each other, and the words “Baggage Allowance Exceeded – Ticket Not Valid For Travel” stamped in red on it. Underneath, in smaller print, were the words “Ticket May Be Revalidated By Personal Consultation With Accredited Travel Agent Before Arrival At The Airport”. I held it out to him. “Here,” I said, “is this your Ticket?” He glanced at it, a look of fear on his face.

“No,” he said desperately, “it can't be – that one's invalid, isn't it? And I was told mine would always be valid. You can't invalidate a Ticket!” Despite himself, he snatched the Ticket from me. “It's my name . . .” he admitted in a quavering voice. He read the words stamped there. “It says it can be revalidated . . .” he murmured. I peered at the Ticket, reading the stamp upsidedown.

“It says that has to happen before you get here.” I was backing away now, some instinct telling me that the full horror of his situation would settle on him soon. But I couldn't help myself from asking, “Didn't you ever think that you were packing far too much?” I gestured at his cart. “I mean, when you realized that you'd need a cart?” His face contorted with horrible fear and dread, and then anger born of desperation. He lunged at me, grabbing me by my collar.

“Give me your Ticket!” he shouted. “Give me it! I should have a Ticket! I bought it! It's mine! I deserve to fly! I deserve to be at the Destination! I did what the Commander wanted! He has to let me in!” I was pushing him away, trying to fight him off – but in his madness of anger he was stronger than me. The other Passengers were not paying any attention, continuing to simply walk past, milling around aimlessly and cursing at each other as they collided.

There was a sudden, sharp report and the Passenger staggered back, slumping against his cart pilled high with domestic detritus. He was clutching his chest and there was the smell of cordite in the air, but there was no blood on his hands or clothes.

“Get outta here, mac,” said a solid, very masculine voice – deep and dependable. The sort of voice that could suck down a couple of longnecks with a whiskey chaser, a plate of barbecue wings and then go on to beat you at pool. I turned to see one of the pilots looking down at me, his strong jaw twisting muscular lips into a friendly grin and over-sized aviator sunglasses reflecting something I couldn't see. “You alright, Sir?” he asked. He held out his hand – a massive organ that dwarfed mine and could have crushed my bones to powder. I nodded.

“I'm fine, thank you.” He nodded and holstered the hand cannon he had used against the Passenger – who had vanished into the crowd, it seemed. As he did so, I sized him up – he was even bigger than I had suspected, not merely tall or large but built on a wholly different scale to the Passengers. He was dressed in a royal blue flight suit and his broad chest was thick with the rainbow barcode of military decorations. On his collar, bright brass winked at me.

“Can I help you any, Sir?” he asked. His voice – as I had noticed before – was like the rest of him. Less formal than that of the Stewardesses, more assured in some ways, but not cocky. Simply certain and knowing and mature in its duty. It was exclusively masculine in a way that the Stewardesses – despite their beauty – were not exclusively feminine. He pointed at the bag by my side. “You're a Diplomat, right, Sir?” he asked.

I nodded uncertainly. “Well, I guess that's the case . . .” He laughed.

“You guess right, Sir.” He looked around. “I reckon the Commander'll have sent a Guide down for you – but just let me check on that. If He hasn't, then I guess I can be your Guide. Just finished my tour, you see, Sir,” he explained. “Back to the Destination for a bit of R&R.”

“Well, I don't want to keep you . . .” The Pilot shook his head.

“It don't matter none, Sir,” he said. “They'll keep a seat at the bar for me and have a cold brewski waiting for me when I get there. You Diplomats've got work to do – gotta help you out with that, Sir.”

I wondered what work I would have to do that could possibly compare to his dogfight out there above the Airport, and then I realized that I didn't even know what the Pilots were fighting about. I began to formulate a question in my mind, and was just about to ask it when the general chaos of the Hall erupted into something more.