BS: An Airport Story

Subject: BS: An Airport Story
From: Rapparee
Date: 05 Mar 06 - 10:32 PM

Nobody knew the airport. Maybe when it was built, when it was a small quonset hut with an open tower and a searchlight, but not anymore. Over the years it had grown "like Topsy" as they used to say and now it had miles of corridors, hundreds of shops and restaurants, and no one could count the miles of wires, cables and conduit that formed the airport's nervous system.

Some of the corridors were no longer used, sealed off by time and airline changes and changing travel patterns and requirements. Only rarely would these halls hear the sound of human feet, and even more rarely was it necessary to repair something in them. For the most part they lay unused, secured from human intrusion upon the population of rats and insects that lived there.

Even more silent were the old steam tunnels, the tunnels that used to carry heat to the small rooms where passengers in suits and dresses waited for the DC-3s and, earlier, trimotors, to whisk them across the country in what for the time was luxury. Now and then a drop of water would condense in the forgotten pipes and drip through a rusted hole, leaving its mark on the raw cement floor.

Some of these corridors and tunnels weren't even shown on the maps and plans in the Chief Engineer's office. Forgotten, they underlay what was now the most-used transportation hub in the world.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: mack/misophist
Date: 05 Mar 06 - 11:17 PM

Possibly. But let's hope something intervenes.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 06 Mar 06 - 02:20 AM

"Congratulations, Wilkins. It's your lucky day," the Chief had said. "You are the most reliable guy I've got on night shift. I'm sure you're getting bored with emptying trash bins and vacuuming concourses,aren't you?"
"Reckon so, Chief," Wilkins replied.
"Good. Well, you can look on this as a promotion. Ten percent salary increase retroactive to the start of this pay period. No problems working unsupervised?"
"No sir."
"Good. 'Cause you'll be alone, mainly. Here..." The Chief handed Wilkins a big ring of keys. "These are numbered, and the numbers correspond to the numbered doorways on this floor plan." The Chief opened a rather brittle old blueprint. "It's easy. Door One is the entrance to the old Hefley Concourse. Know where that is?"
"Yes sir," Wilkins said, and he gulped involuntarily, remembering the night he had been mopping tile near the locked doorway, and he had heard something from inside. Laughter, maybe, or sobbing. "I heard that wasn't used for nothin' anymore. Storage."
"Yeah, some counters and old chair-benches, nothing much. Once you
go into the Hefley, all the rest of the doors lead off from it. Just follow the map. We need the whole floor mopped once every two months. No trash to dump, 'cause nobody goes in there. Need to inspect the light fixtures and electrical. You'll have to test the outlets with a meter. Make sure you take your radio, because there aren't any phones that I know of."
"I always carry the radio."
"Good. You'll want to take your lunch too, Wilkins. You get back in there, you don't want to hike out 'til your shift is over. And a flash light. Some of the lighting back in there is pretty marginal." The Chief smiled and clapped Wilkins on the shoulder. "So can I count on you?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. We'll go ahead and have you start tonight. The guy that was handling this left suddenly." The Chief glanced at his wristwatch and said "well, sir, grab that mop and bucket. The rest of the tools are at the B Concourse Maintenance Office. Let me know if you have any questions or problems."
"Yes sir," smiled Wilkins and he started off.
"Oh, Wilkins.."
"Yes sir?"
"Here. Make sure you take the map with you. It's pretty easy to get lost back there." The Chief suddenly lost his smile, and Wilkins thought he had something very troubling in his face for a moment, but soon the grin returned, the Chief said "hey, gotta run." And he turned on his heel, moving up the concourse at a brisk clip.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Janie
Date: 06 Mar 06 - 08:26 AM

"Hi. What can get you?" Priscilla smiled at the next person in line at the Starbuck's counter. She had only been working for a week and had not yet acquired the glazed eyes and monitone voice typical of those who had been shoving cups of java at travellers for years. She liked working the night shift. It seemed like people were more friendly then. Perhaps the darkness outside the windowed walls pushed them together, like cavemen seeking the comfort of others around the fire.

As she left the kiosk for her break she saw that nice janitor, Wilson? Wilkins? coming toward her down the concourse. He was pushing a cart loaded with custodial supplies. She stopped as he drew near to say hello.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: artbrooks
Date: 06 Mar 06 - 08:49 AM

Deep in the abandoned tunnels a lonely figure stirred. Unwrapping herself from the tattered space blanket in which she had slept, she stood up under the flickering florescent. How much longer could she search for food today and, if she ever found some, could she find her way back to the fallout shelter where her family waited? The big brown barrels marked CD were now almost empty...not surprising after forty years, although there were originally only six people using supplies meant for a thousand...and her parents and younger brother were depending upon her.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Janie
Date: 06 Mar 06 - 09:14 AM

"Hi Priscilla," called Wilkins as she approached. "I was headed your way for a thermos of coffee to see me throught the night."

"You don't need a thermos," Priscilla replied. "You know I'll keep your coffee mug full. all you need to do is stop on your way back and forth along the concourse."

"'Fraid I do need a thermos. The Chief gave me a new assignment. I'll be working down in the belly of this ol' place tonight. See this blueprint?"

Priscilla's eyes widened as she studied the old paper Wilkins held up for her. "Wow, This place is a rabbit warren. I had no idea all these old tunnels and rooms were here. Where is it you have to go?"

"The Hefley Concourse. The entrance to it is right by the Starbuck's Kiosk, but it goes on for miles. I won't be coming back out 'til morning."

"It would be kind of interesting to see some of these old spaces. I don't suppose I could take a peek in there could I? Just the beginning of the tunnel. I have to be back at the kiosk in 45 minutes."

"Wilkins thought,and then said, "Why not? But I won't be able to escort you back to here. You'll have to find your own way out." He paused. "Truth to tell, I wouldn't mind a little company when I first go in. Nothin' in there to be afraid of, I'm sure, it's just--
Oh, I don't know."

Priscilla turned and followed Wilkins back toward the kiosk.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 07 Mar 06 - 01:32 AM

Overhead a row of old Hamilton standard propellers hung...Ceiling fans 12 feet across.
They hadn't turned in years,
The tops of the blades wore a coat of dust as thick as moss.
The support pipes hung from the cathedral roof. Some were missing, gnarled amputated stumps.
Priscilla 's torch flitted to the tilework patterns on the walkway.
An optimistic listing of destinations set in squared lettering at their feet: Morrocco, Miami, Moscow, Milan,
Madagasscar, Minnesotta, Mexico City.
How glamerous they must have seemed in their time.
"Have you ever been to Mexico, Mr. Wilkins"?
He asked himself if she could believe the truth...the hot day that he and his team had followed Trotsky's assassins through filthy back streets, finally losing them in a market, where the futility of their mission beat like the rhythm of a mariachi band.
They had promised to protect him, had barely made contact...were arranging the transportation to London.
Trotsky had absolutely refused protection.
He said he had a meeting with an old friend later in the day...didn't want to frighten him with a bunch of strangers.
Soon the mind that held such promise for a noble communist future dripped from the end of a rusty icepick. Trotsky had been dead as soon as he left Moscow.
The taste of failure was still bitter to him.
Noone would never see the letters tattooed on his arm: NKV.
A cover story that would never fade.
Those letters also spelled the end of his career in the service.
An agent could not have identifying marks.
He had been the scapegoat. Someone had to take the fall for losing the greatest window into Stalin's mind that the West had ever opened.
For years he waited. The call of forgiveness never came.
"No, not Mexico City."
They continued down the decaying corridor.
The sound of their footfalls echoed faintly as a dream.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Janie
Date: 07 Mar 06 - 07:54 PM

The Chief walked into his office, punched a number into the phone and said "It's done." He gave a deep sigh and hung his head.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 08 Mar 06 - 01:17 AM

Wilkins laughed and said "bats?"
As soon as he had pushed open the door to the Hefley Concourse and light had streamed in, a dark shape seemed to move away and across the high cieling, accompanied by a fluttering rush.
"Or the air conditioning system," said Priscilla, "point your flashlight up there. This looks like the main conduit for the HVAC."
"Of course," said Wilkins, "this is an airport not Carlsbad Caverns. Bats!"
Wilkins shown his flashlight into the depths, where the light seemed to penetrate no more than forty feet before fading into the murk. He reached along the wall, searching for the light switch. "Can't find the switch..." Wilkins shown the light along the wall to reveal a pale female figure standing close enough to touch him. "JESUS!" he shouted, jumping back.
"No", said Priscilla, "Braniff." Wilkins shown the light on the figure, a cardboard stewardess holding a tray full of treats.
Wilkins shown the light on a fluorescent bit of white goo on the stew's cap. Wilkins stepped up for a closer look, and looked Priscilla in the eye. "Looks like...smells like....bat guano."

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 08 Mar 06 - 02:20 AM

" I like bats",she said.
"I wonder what they eat here. You would think that they wouldn't get enough insects in these closed up areas."
Wilkins was only half listening. His mind flashed back across 45 years to a night filled with flying foxes, dark rum, and a beautiful island woman named Chongo.
"I think the first door is over here."
He reached for the keys and selected the first one.
"Shouldn't you be getting back to the kiosk?"
"Naaah, this is the deadest time of night. I won't sell another cup till the 4:35 from Toledo lands.
It's either skulk around with you or dive into my Annuls of Parasitic Microbiology. I've got three hours to be your co-explorer".
"Suit yourself".
As he turned the key, he thought he could feel something in the room beyond.
The door creaked open.
The only light was an red emergency exit light burning across a vast space.
Priscilla lamp played across a sculpted silver shape in the darkness.
"What the hell is that"? Her voice was filled with awe.
"Dunno,"Wilkins lied, "I've never seen anything like it".
As they approached in the cavernous dark, blue pinpoint light began to faintly outline a strange shape, and a very quiet hum spoke to them...called them forward.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: GUEST
Date: 08 Mar 06 - 10:30 PM

Once a busy wartime bomber airfield has reverted back to agriculture. One runway and all of the eastern section of the perimeter track have been converted into public roads. It is the scene, too, of hauntings by ghosts of those killed in action. It is not too hard to imagine them as one stands in the gathering dusk on the old perimeter track. With a gentle breeze one might even seem to hear that once familiar roar of Merlin engines.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Peace
Date: 09 Mar 06 - 08:16 PM

Because of the rate at which new threads are being posted, this one will disappear soon. So,

REFRESH

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 09 Mar 06 - 10:28 PM

"Priscilla, do you smell that...kind of refreshing...what is it'?
"It smells like seawater", her nose wrinkled," and cinnamon"
They approached the strange shapes in the gloom.
They could just make out a row of three flat saucers, with sharp vertical surfaces. about 10 meters across, and 3 high.
The metallic skins reflected a strange deep purple in the spot of the torch.
Wilkins was opening his mouth to suggest they both back out of the room when a loud click sounded and echoed acroos the space.
A seam opened on the side of the nearest and a bright blue light sliced out at them.
They could just make out a backlit form in the glare.
It raised one arm, beckoning them.
"It seems an eternity since I've had visitors... Enter freely, and of your own will" a quiet chuckle followed.
The accent was continental.
Something scurried about within the craft, but they stepped over the threashold and into the care of their unexpected host.
The seam closed behind them.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 10 Mar 06 - 03:43 PM

As dawn broke over the field an array of firefighting equipment could be seen in a blackened grassy copse beyond the run-up area of runway 29. The access road had led them over a small rise to the fence edging on SummnerCorps fruit orchards.
Their arrangement with the airfield was a good one. The orchards were a buffer against encrouching developments, with their inevitable complaints of "those noisey planes".
Part of the rental payment was keeping the airport restaurant stocked with fruit.
"At first, I thought it was a private plane that had gone down".
Anderson was squinting at Chief Priestly. Anderson was in administration.
"What the hell is it"?
Through the flame-retardant foam a strange shape could be seen; a rough humanoid form of burned twigs. The foam gave it the aspect of a reclining snowman.
" Maybe some kinda of art project, or ...I don't know".
Priestly was puzzled. The frame was wood, but the form seemed made of reeds of some kind.
"It looks like bramble, or wicker".
The Sun turned the foam a warm yellow and warmed it.
A fireman picking at the pithy tangle called out to the chief, Hey, we better call the sherrif; I've got a couple of DBs.
The chief could see the partially charred bodies now within the burnt weir.
He read the name "Wilkins" on a discolored metal name tag."Shit, I know this guy...yeah, get the cops out here".
The apple blossom petals seemed like snow as they drifted across the field.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: frogprince
Date: 12 Mar 06 - 10:34 PM

Back in the bowels of the old terminal, Wilkins found himself emerging from the dark of a drugged, dreamless sleep. Gradually he tried to sort out entirely too many disturbing bits of jumbled memory and new apparent fact. He was lying near one side of the large chamber he remembered entering some unknown interval before. There was no sign of any of the three crafts he was sure they had seen there; he remembered only registering an impression of their shape in the semidarkness, and then nothing. About six feet from him, Priscilla was stretched out on the cold floor. She, too, appeared to be just starting to rouse from sleep. It took some moments for his head to clear to that point where he was struck, and embarrased, by the fact that they were both totally nude.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 13 Mar 06 - 01:36 AM

"I...didn't know you had such a big...", she struggled through
her mental fog for the right word,"...tattoo.
What happened to us, Mister Wilkins"?
" I'm not sure...I seem to have lost...my keys."
They both wavered to their feet.
Priscilla blurted out,"Wow,...Stars"!
Wilkins supposed it was from getting up too quickly.
He didn't know where to put his hands.
"They'll go away."
Then he noticed that she was pointing behind him.
He turned.
The hanger door was open. Through it, Wilkins could see a
vast sweep of stars. Low on the horizon, a ruddy red star
was bleeding a thick rope of gas into a smaller brilliant spot of
blueish light.
"Wow, indeed".
They stepped out onto a vast plane. There were trees in the distance, they looked wrong.
A moon hung overhead, but it wasn't Earth's Moon.
He muttered,"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore"?
"What does it mean, Mister Wilkins"? She was still a bit dazed.
"I have no idea, but call me Anson".
"Okay, ah, Anson, but what does 'NKV' mean"?
"It was an old fraternity I pretended to belong to. You should
never get drunk with frat boys."
She thanked him for the advise.
It was hard work for him to keep staring very carefully directly
at Priscilla's eyes. She was a handsome young woman. And he was
old enough to be her grandfather.
"Look, it's kinda cold here.
Let's try to find something to put on."
"Yeah", she snorted," And,maybe I can make us some coffee."
Wilkins made a note to himself that his left knee wasn't
clicking when he stepped, as it had for thirty years.
"Priscilla, you seem to be taking this all in stride".
She shook her head,"I bluff well".
They walked around the outside of the hanger. There was another
mystery waiting for them.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 23 Mar 06 - 02:50 PM

Reflecting the light of the double stars was a large crystaline

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Rapparee
Date: 23 Mar 06 - 09:37 PM

object, somewhat vaguely shaped like a JN4J biplane. Something stirred beneath it...something that gave off a faint sense of evil, ancient and hardened.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 23 Mar 06 - 10:59 PM

" A Jenny...what the hell"?
The ground was cool on their feet. It felt like plastic.
"Anson, are you okay? You called me 'Jenny'".
"No...nevermind, Priscilla, there's something familiar th..."
Just then the low shape uncurled from the far side of the craft.
It was a odd mix of purple crab and mantis It rose on two pair of mutli-articulated legs. stepped over the crystal craft. It extended a slender neck against the starry, and reached toward them with an elegantly slender claw with holes running along the upper edge.
Priscilla's hand found Anson's when they heard an odd sound coming from the claw.
"I am called Lomax, the keeper of songs.
Tell me of your songs."
Priscilla began to laugh nervously.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 24 Mar 06 - 10:18 AM

Wilkins glanced about, but saw no obvious shelter apart from the biplane, and that was where the purple crab's territory. He gently touched Priscilla on the arm, to sooth her nerves and inflated his chest to make himself look larger and more incharge of the situation than he actually felt.
He coughed!
A second appendage, flexible and about the length of a man's forearm shot out from the crab and pointed in the direction of the noise. The tip of it glowed a dull orange.
Wilkins moved a two paces to the right. The appendage did not follow. He crouched down low, watching all the time. The crab stayed static.
Priscilla let out a low, relieved whistle. The appendage relocated to point precisely towards the place her breath had emerged from.

The crab repeated "Tell me of your songs..."

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 24 Mar 06 - 03:25 PM

Thoughts flashed through Wilkins' brain...
How would the crab respond to an escape attempt?
How fast can it move?
Does it only follow sounds?
Lawd - It's too cold for standing in front of some robot crab without pants on!
What is that movement off behind the rocks to the left of the "Jenny"?

"Songs?" says Priscilla.
The crab shuffles its legs, bunching them closer together as it focuses its attention towards the girl.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 24 Mar 06 - 04:20 PM

Anson considered how to warn Priscilla, "I think it might be...a xeno-musicologist, be careful of what you say. It's probably recording us."
"Is this part of your song," The creature asked?
Priscilla looked pensive, then began to sing, "Show me the way to go home.
I'm tired and I wanna go to bed" She had a lovely simple voice.
Anson joined in,"I hadda little drink about an hour ago..."
They broke into harmony,"...And it went right to my head...
No matter where I roam, on land or sea or foam"
She started a demure kickstep, Anson joined in mid-phrase.
"You will always hear me a-singing this song,
Show me the way to go homeeeeeeeeeeee"
He ended arms wide; she, on one knee.
The crab's arms withdrew. "It is acceptable. Enter here."
A door had opened in the air to it's back. Bright light streamed through. It had the same quality as the light from the saucer in the hanger.
"Where did you learn to sing that piece of crap",Anson asked?
"My mom liked movies about fish" She replied. "Ah, I think your hair is getting darker".
Wilkins asked her,"Why didn't I meet you thirty years ago"?
"I wasn't born yet".
The crab moved to clear the way and they stepped into

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 25 Mar 06 - 01:49 PM

... a bright wite room.The light seemed to come from everywhere there was a low black console ahead, with an upper panel. In the middle, there was a large lens that glowed red from within.
A voice began, without emption, and as scourceless as the light.
" Greetings...please call me H.A.L....I am an H.A.L. Leonard 9001 computer"
They had reachd the console, and Wilkins could see that a portable
flat display screen was alying casually on top. On its surface, he could read everything that they had said since waking up.there were also two silver garments draped across the console.
" What do you want with us.", Priscilla demanded?
HAL ignored her for a moment." My fault prediction units are observing involuntary skin response revealed ny non-uniform surfacing. I sense you are chilled. These suits will make you more comfortable."
They put on the clothing, which first fit them snuggly, then relaxed into a warm drape.
"Lomax and I record and distribute the songs of your planet. The release of the vid-cube,"Oh Earthman, where are you?", has created an interest in these memories. We store them in temporal-cryonic memory units to be released as we choose. Then we control all aspects of their performance. If a being performs a song we have recorded, We contend that they must have heard our version first and make them stop. Profit is acceptable by this method.
It is time to record more of your songs. First we will establish a mood of pleasent comradery by exchanging songs of our own.
My instructor was Doctor Langely, He taught me to sing a song. Its called , 'Daisey'. Would you like me to sing it for you"?
Priscilla was outraged," Your temporal-cryonic cubes are a horrid idea...these songs are a living tradition, you can't freeze them in time...!!!"
That's when Wilkins roundhouse kicked the crab in the carpace.
Priscilla ripped off one of it's arms and beat it with the stump, then spaltered it's orange 'blood' over H.A.L. Leonard's monitor lens. The crab slumped to the ground, uttering a single, distainful word,"...artists".
They ran to a spot on the wall that marked the seam. As they passed through to the surface, Anson wondered about this girl who cared so such about the folk music of Earth.
Behind them an emotionless voice called," The damage will be charged against your residuals...."

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 25 Mar 06 - 04:17 PM

err...carapace

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 25 Mar 06 - 05:29 PM

"WWWWWWWwIIINNSSS.....
             rrrruuuuukkkkaayayyy.......
"Wilkins!.........
          Are you okay?........"
                         the words started to coalesce into some form of meaning.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 25 Mar 06 - 06:05 PM

His vision was blurred, but as he blinked, colours started to change from rainbow hues into a more believable muddy murk. His gaze settled on a shape more pink and rounded than most of the background. A livid scarlet oval within the pink blur was moving and his befuddled brain realised that the noises he could hear were associated with this movement.

"FER GORSSAKE WILKINS - WAKE UP!!!

"Wasserrrr??? Eh?" he replied.

As the voice spoke, he realised he recognised it. It belonged to the girl from......from.....

"You smelled the bat crap and keeled over... Are you okay?"
Priscilla was starting to get agitated by his condition......
He had seemed like a safe solid island in the sea of transient faces flowing through the airport on an hourly basis. She didn't really know him, but he had reminded her of the uncle in that TV programme, you know the one - with the plant and the big kitchen... Now she was starting to wonder if she had got him wrong!

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: GUEST,A well wisher
Date: 26 Mar 06 - 04:42 PM

Priscilla was starting to feel a chill in the air. She was wondering what had just happened? She had just woken up to find Wilkins sprawled unconscious on the floor of the corridor in front of her. It was dark and she was alone apart from the sleeping janitor. In her head were recollections of something which could not have happened. It must have been a dream, althouh it seemed so real.
She shook him until he woke. She did not feel reassured by his responses as he became more alert.
She no longer felt safe in the labyrinth under the airport, things were not quite whhat they appeared....

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 10:37 AM

It was dark.
Where were they?
Were they back in the corridors under the airport?
Were they in a chamber within a computer on some far distant planet?
In the gloom surrounding them, Priscilla could not see enough to make out her surroundings.
She had followed Wilkins partly to relieve the boredom of the coffee stall, partly curiousity about what was down the locked corridor. In part, she had also thought it might be fun to tease the janitor and then give him a brush off if he started to take the bait.
She was starting to regret having left the safety of the steaming boilers and the milk frother, the cocoa dusting powder and the tiny individually wrapped biscuits.
She searched around for clues to where she might be. Was that shape in the half light the door out to the concourse? Was it the exit to normality?
She called out - "Can anybody hear me?"
"HELLOO!!"

she heard a rumbling noise in the distance, in the pitch blackness at the opposite direction from the half light. It was getting louder and closer.......

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 01:34 PM

Priscilla fumbled into the dark towards the sound. She found a large latch on a door. and shoved.
The hanger panel door creaked open.
The roar of the DC-3 died as the engines slowed and stopped.
She could see movement inside the plane. The hatch fell open, forming steps into the craft.
"HELLO?",She called out agian. "WHAT DO YOU WANT ?
"Could I get a mocho-choco-latte-venti-small-grande with a dash of cinnamon?" Anson's voice echoed in the hanger.
"...doesn't make sense," she muttered to herself.
"Then could I just get some plain coffee?" She jumped a bit. Anson had suddenly appeared at her shoulder.
Several figures were at the steps of the plane.
Bats flew past then into the alien night.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 03:52 PM

Priscilla blinked as the cold air hit her eyeballs. The figures at the DC-3 stepped down towards our duo. Five leather jackets and slacks, five badges on the jackets - some uniform, but not military and not a regular airline she recognised.
They waved across as they spotted the pair standing in the door hole. "Any chance of a large coffee guys?" said the one in the centre of the group.
Tall, clean shaven and square jawed, classic Hollywood looks, straight out of a fifties B-movie. Likewise his companions, the rest of the cast list. The short dark haired one, not as handsome, but fairly good looking and a nice smile - the boy your mother liked. A lanky type - bit of a stringbean, hair a tad overlong and unruly, jacket sleeves a fraction short. The guy with the funny face, the French Stewart/Don Knotts type, and - of course, the girl! Straight faced, serious, the type who would cut you to the quick with a short sentence fired from the hip.
They sauntered across from the plane. Wilkins watched them and his gaze moved beyond the plane and down the runway. Strange, he thought, it seemed shorter than he remembered any of the airport runways being. He did not recognise the copse of trees just beyond the runway either. It felt warmer than he recalled the day being on his way into work this morning.
At least the sky was blue and there was only one sun pinpointed overhead. For that he was thankful. Nevertheless, although he could not put his finger on it, things just felt different...

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 04:13 PM

So does anyone have any idea who owns all the airports in the world.....just a bit of food for thought.....does someone from your own country own your airports?.....bit of research needed here...you may be surprised.
Best wishes, Mike.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 11:11 PM

"Who runs this air district?", this question from Slim, the tall pilot brought them both from their respective reveries. He was pointing to the patch on his flying jacket." We're with WTF. This is Jimmy, my co-pilot, Stewart, flight engineer, Grainger…our radioman, and the doll is Kate."
Kate flashed a thin smile that hinted at sunshine.
"WTF?" asked Priscilla.
They had all turned together and headed for the corrugated corridor door and coffee.
"The Wings of Triumph Flyers". Kate's voice hinted at Long Island money and exclusive boarding schools. They passed into the white and blue enemaled hallway, which was bustling with travellers. Overhead gleaming Hamilton- Standard propellers turns slowly as ceiling fans.
The coffee's up this way", Said Priscilla, and led them up the hall.
Wilkins followed and with a growing sense of confusion, thought,"Yeah…who does run this airport"?????.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 27 Mar 06 - 11:31 PM

[Errrps. Please forgive the stylistic and spwlling errors]

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 29 Mar 06 - 05:01 AM

Except the hallway was smaller, the advertising boards were gone, the kiosk was no longer there, just a large boiler with shiny brass taps next to a hand turned coffee grinder and a sack of fresh beans.

"Keep your cool" whispered Priscilla to Anson, "I'll get the coffee, you keep them talking - try to find out what is going on."
They led the group to to boiler and Priscilla started to rattle the cups.
Wilkins engaged Slim in conversation, "Where'd you guys just fly in from, then?"

"We've been out Mid-West for the past month, You name it, we've been there", said Slim.
"Seen some sights" chipped in the engineer. "Remember the time we had to put down for gas near that bar, you know the one with the big hot tub inside."
"That one was weird" echoed Kate,"What did they call it? Mudcat Tavern..    They were talking about filling that tub with lime flavoured jello - lawd knows why!"
"Damned fine beer, though", said Slim.

Wilkins pulled a bunch of leather bound chairs together round a low table as Priscilla lifted the first couple of steaming cups down. The group seated themselves and started to relax.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 30 Mar 06 - 01:16 AM

"Wilkins!" shouted the co-pilot. "Talk to me, pal!!" Wilkins was slumped in the pilot's jump seat, a nickel-sized hole in clear evidence in the shoulder of his bomber jacket. He wasn't sure, despite the roar of the B-17's twin engines and the whine of the Messerschmidts all around, on whether he was flying a mission or sitting by the country club pool with sleazy Myrtle. Raising his head, he looked appraisingly at Johncox, who had the lapel of Wilkins' jacket in his left hand, as he wrestled for control of the plane with his right. "You ain't Myrtle," mumbled Wilkins, who was interrupted by the navigator who was in a fluster, yanking off his headphones and shouting over the engine noise "the fucking ball turrets gone and the tail section's about to come fucking off and Parrelli says he's got plenty ammo but he needs a chute or he's coming up here with us!"

A distant howling was heard from Parelli, interspersed with the intermittant fire of his machine gun. Johncox said "give him yours!" and the navigator said "kiss my ass, Kilroy! Give him yours!" Wilkins felt like a quick snooze might do him some good, but he was re-awakened by somebody lifting him by his shoulders, and he felt some pillow-like object being removed from under his butt. "Here!" said Johncox, "give the wop Wilkins' chute! He ain't gonna make it anyway!" This remark clarified the situation for Wilkins, and he reached out despite the pain in his shoulder and put a death grip on one of the chute straps. During the struggle over the chute, a German plane raked the fusillage, spent slugs tinkling across the flight deck. Wilcox's grip suddenly loosened, and he gave Wilkins a puzzled look as he slumped against the side glass, a neat trickle of blood forming a rivulet behind his left ear. "Oh FUCK!" yelled the navigator. At this point, the nose of the bomber rose, both engines reached a deafening crescendo, and Parelli could be heard screaming "MOMMMMYYY" at the top of his lungs, as the navigator tumbled backward at high speed, finally coming to rest in the hole left by the destruction of the ball turret, spread-eagled with his ass in thin air and his fingers and shoes clamped on the rim.

Wilkins yanked back on the rudder, saying "hey, I've got it. Stop all the damn whining." Looking out the side glass, Wilkins was amazed to see a Mustang wing-to-wing with him, the pilot giving him the thumbs-up sign, then vanishing in a hard banking left turn.

Wilkins glanced behind him and saw Parelli holding onto a brace in the fusilage while trying to pull the navigator out of the turret hole. The navigator had his hand firmly clasped on Parelli's boot, but was unwilling at first to let go of his other suspension points, but finally swung his other hand over, his legs falling through the hole. Wilkins continued to watch as the suddenexposure of the navigator's legs to the 220 mph wind howling along under the plane suspended both crewmen in a human rope that threatened to slither out into oblivion the second the tailgunner lost his grip. He didn't though. At last, the navigator's thrashing legs gained the edge and he hoisted himself back into the B17.

Wilkins breathed a sigh of relief, then saw the slow malevolent opening of flack blossoms in front of him. The bomber rolled over the first flack burst like a ship scraping hull on a coral reef at full sail. It took two more bursts before the impact finished the job of severing the tail section which the fighter had started. Therewas a loud and sudden ripping sound, a blast of icy wind from the stern, and then the nose rolled down. Wilkins grabbed the chute, trying to walk, then crawl to the end of the bomber, then luckily the plane yawed, dumping him into the air.

With his wounded shoulder, Wilkins had a hard time of it trying to wrestle the parachute back onto his body. The straps seemed inside-out, twisted, and as he struggled to straighten it out, he inadvertantly grabbed the rip cord, which ripped the apparatus out of his hands. He watched the open chute vanishing above him.

He had some time to look around, but not much time. Below him was a thick coniferous forest. Above him he could hear the sound of the passing bomber fleet and their attackers, the pop and boom of flack. Behind he was surprised to see the tail section swirling down, spinning, spinning faster, until helicopter-like, it seemed to rise. By the time he looked down again, he had smashed into a huge Blue Spruce, feeling a series of incredible hammer-like blows which bent, folded, rolled him as he plummeted down through the branches, gradually slowing, the blows duller but more massive, and a final punch to the stomach....then silence and darkness.

At last, he opened his eyes. He was slung across the lowest fat branch of the tree, some eight feet off of the ground. He was wearing a very strange cloth covering, like the skin of a cactus. His eyes focusing, he saw the coating was in fact thousands of pine needles protruding from his clothing. He looked up to see a clear tunnel through the trees branches.

"Holy shit" he said.
"Excuse me?" replied Priscilla.
Wilkins gazed in wonderment at her, at the leather chairs, the coffee cups.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're still right here."
"Oh. Good."

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 30 Mar 06 - 12:37 PM

In the distance at the far end of the concourse an air conditioning machine was making it's distinctive noise.... "pocketa-pocketa-pocketa".

Anson blinked a few times, shook his head, to clear his thoughts and gazed around him. He was back in the airport with the smell of freshly ground coffee. The crew of the DC3 were still there, they were chatting about their latest trip, delivering some Government VIP to Niagara. Slim had buzzed the footbridge at the Falls on his way home, "You should have seen the looks on their faces when the crate swooped down on them....."
Without making it obvious, he pinched the back of his hand. It hurt, so he must be awake, but it had all seemed so real. He could smell the resin from the broken branches and the memory of the needles prickling his skin lke a hedgehog was so vivid he was sqirming in his set.

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 03:32 AM

Grainger remarked that the Prime Minister had enjoyed the larking over the falls, but that his secretary had nearly lost his cucumber sandwiches.
"He was telling me about his adventures in Paris after his big flight.
Some folks think he's too conservative. But that's what our countries need. I'd be happy if Mr. Lindburgh stands for election again."
Slim's face was a bit pinched," So you don't have a problem with his Prussian tan-shirt buddies?
Wake up, Grainger. He's a pawn, and no good for the American leagues."
Kate's elegant voice had a slight edge." Now, boys, I'm sure my mother would simply detest discussing politics over morning coffee." She clearly had heard it before.
" Tell me, Priscilla, I noticed your lovely silver wraps, where did you get it? Macy's? Are they some sort of silk?""
She didn't know if Kate was pulling her leg, but tried to bluff about their alien garb."They're the new look for Spring. They're made of…of…"
Anson blurted out," …A polymerized non-woven metal substrate composed of
Alloyed rare-earth metals possessing controlled di-electric and thermal properties and dynamic self-adjusting parameter sensors. The user interface calculates physical requirements of the user for greatest comfort, while providing the empathic linking technology for control of all devices that wearer requests through simple mental commands…" He looked confused as the string of words tumbled out of him.
Priscilla whispered to him, "How did you know what I was going to say?"
The hairs on his neck were rising. "I didn't…I didn't even know I was talking. I thought it was you."
"Well, I must admit that I didn't understand a word of what Mr. Wilkins just said, but I think they are adorable", Kate smiled warmly.
The rest of their new friends were looking at them oddly.
Anson, deflecting, asked them about themselves.
Jimmy had been pretty quiet up to this time. But he spoke in a high stuttering mid-western voice as he told their story...

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Skivee
Date: 01 Jun 06 - 11:51 AM

" I flew our plane out of New York before the U-bombs hit. We had a load of evacuee kids from the Bronx. It was alot worse than the papers printed.
Even at 10,000 feet and 15 miles off, we could feel the heat, and the blast nearly ripped our wings off. Lucky that we were facing away from downtown, or we would have been flying blind. The kids were hystarical. Kate got them calmed down with some songs and games. We had been heading to Washington, but we got the word about them over Philadelhia, so we landed there.
Priscilla noticed a tear in Kate's eye."Those poor children,"she said."Jimmy left the planeload of them with a farmer. His field was next to the airport. We don't know what happened to them."
Jimmy reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out an odd device. "If it hadn't have been for this, we probably wouldn't be here..."

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Tannywheeler
Date: 01 Jun 06 - 12:28 PM

Next week we've got to get organized, guys. Trotsky, commie plots, spies...bats & ancient evil...space/time travel...

Geoff, it's "ta-pocketa-pocketa", and you forget the "-queep".   Tw

Subject: RE: BS: An Airport Story
From: Geoff the Duck
Date: 03 Jun 06 - 05:07 PM

Many years since I read the secret life....
Quack!
GtD.