Runway Zero-Eight by Arthur Hailey, John Castle Page B

traffic in the aisle already.”
    “As you say. Well, I’m here if you want me.” Spencer resumed his seat. “But tell me — just how serious is all this?”
    Baird looked him in the eye. “As serious as you are ever likely to want it,” he said curtly.
    He moved along to the group of football fans who had earlier in the evening imbibed whisky with such liberality. The quartet was now reduced in strength to three, and one of these sat shivering in his shirt sleeves, a blanket drawn across his chest. His color was gray.
    “Keep this man warm,” said Baird. “Has he had anything to drink?”
    “That’s a laugh,” replied a man behind him, shuffling a pack of cards. “He must have downed a couple of pints of rye, if I’m any judge.”
    “Before or after dinner?”
    “Both, I reckon.”
    “That’s right,” agreed another in the group. “And I thought Harry could hold his liquor.”
    “In this case it’s done him no harm,” Baird said. “In fact, it has helped to dilute the poison, I don’t doubt. Have any of you men got any brandy?”
    “Cleared mine up,” said the man with the cards.
    “Wait a minute,” said the other, leaning forward to get at his hip pocket. “I might have some left in the flask. We gave it a good knocking, waiting about at Toronto.”
    “Give him a few sips,” instructed Baird. “Take it gently. Your friend is very ill.”
    “Say, Doctor,” said the man with the cards, “what’s the score? Are we on schedule?”
    “As far as I know, yes.”
    “This puts paid to the ball game for Andy, eh?”
    “It certainly does. We’ll get him to hospital just as soon as we land.”
    “Poor old Andy,” commiserated the man with the hip flask, unscrewing the cap, “he always was an unlucky so-and-so. Hey,” he exclaimed as a thought struck him, “you say he’s pretty bad — he’ll be all right, won’t he?”
    “I hope so. You’d better pay him some attention, as I said, and make sure he doesn’t throw off those blankets.”
    “Fancy this happening to old Andy. What about ’Otpot, that English screwball? You drafted him?”
    “Yes, he’s giving us a hand.” As Baird stepped away the man with the cards flicked them irritably in his hand and demanded of his companion, “How d’you like this for a two-day vacation?”
    Further along the aisle, Baird found Janet anxiously bending over Mrs. Childer. He raised one of the woman’s eyelids. She was unconscious.
    Her husband seized frantically on the doctor’s presence.
    “How is she?” he implored.
    “She’s better off now than when she was conscious and in pain,” said Baird, hoping he sounded convincing. “When the body can’t take any more, nature pulls down the shutter.”
    “Doctor, I’m scared. I’ve never seen her so ill. Just what is this fish poisoning? What caused it? I know it was the fish, but why?”
    Baird hesitated.
    “Well,” he said slowly, “I guess you’ve a right to know. It’s a very serious illness, one that needs treatment at the earliest possible moment. We’re doing all we can right now.”
    “I know you are, Doctor, and I’m grateful. She is going to be okay, isn’t she? I mean—”
    “Of course she is,” said Baird gently. “Try not to worry. There’ll be an ambulance waiting to take her to hospital immediately we land. Then it’s only a question of treatment and time before she’s perfectly well again.”
    “My God,” said Childer, heaving a deep breath, “it’s good to hear you say that.” Yes, thought Baird, but supposing I had the common guts to put it the other way? “But listen,” Childer suggested, “couldn’t we divert — you know, put down at a nearer airport?”
    “We thought of that,” answered Baird, “but there’s a ground fog which would make landing at other fields highly dangerous. Anyway, we’ve now passed them and we’re over the Rockies. No, the quickest way of getting your wife under proper care is to crack on for Vancouver as fast