That event was the John F. Kennedy assassination.

It had been four years ago. Four years since the gray November afternoon when, he had pulled the microphone across his desk toward him and had announced the shattering news which seconds earlier had flashed from Dallas.

His eyes, as he spoke then, had been on the photograph whose inscription read: To my friend Mel Bakersfeld—John F. Kennedy.

The photograph still remained, as did many memories.

The memories began, for Mel, with his speech in Washington, D.C.

At the time, as well as airport general manager, he had been president of the Airport Operators Council – the youngest leader, ever, of that small but influential body linking major airports of the world. AOC headquarters was in Washington, and Mel flew there frequently.

His speech was to a national planning congress.

Aviation, Mel Bakersfeld had pointed out, was the only truly successful international undertaking. It was a means of intermingling diverse populations at ever-diminishing cost. Even more significant was aerial commerce. Movement of freight by air, already mammoth in extent, was destined to be greater still. Yet, airports, runway systems, terminals, were geared to yesterday, with scant—if any—provision for tomorrow; what was lost sight of, or ignored, was the speed of aviation’s progress. Usually, too much was spent on showplace terminals, too little on operating areas.

“We have broken the sound barrier,” Mel declared, “but not the ground barrier.”

The speech was accorded a standing ovation and was widely reported.

The day after the speech, Mel was invited to the White House. J.F.K., Mel found, shared many of his own ideas.

Subsequently, there were other sessions. After several such occasions, Mel was at home in the White House. As time went on, he drifted into one of those easygoing relationships which J.F.K. encouraged among those with expertise to offer him.

Soon Mel was “in”—a dues-paid member of the inner circle. His prestige, high before, went higher still. The Airport Operators Council re-elected him president, barely in his late thirties.

Six months later, John F. Kennedy made his fateful Texas journey.

Like others, Mel was first stunned, then later wept. Only later still, did it dawn on him that the assassin’s bullets had ricocheted onto the lives of others, his own among them. He discovered he was no longer “in” in Washington.

Mel’s trips to Washington ceased. His public appearances became limited to local ones. Even though there was plenty to think about, including troubles at home, there was a sense that time and opportunity had passed him by.

Mel eased his car into the terminal basement parking area.

Near his parking stall was a locked box with an airport telephone. He dialed the Snow Desk and asked about the jet, but there was no news.

Mel hesitated. There was no reason, he supposed, why he need remain at the airport any longer tonight. Yet again, unaccountably, he had the same premonition.

Mel dialed another number and asked for Cindy. After a brief wait, he heard her voice say sharply, “Mel, why aren’t you here?”

“I’m sorry. It’s a pretty big storm…”

“Get down here fast!”

From the fact that his wife’s voice was low, Mel deduced there were others within hearing. Just the same, she managed to convey a surprising amount of venom.

Mel sometimes tried to associate the voice of Cindy nowadays with the Cindy he remembered before their marriage fifteen years ago, when they first met in San Francisco, he on leave from the Navy and Korea. She had been a gentler person then, it seemed to him. She had been an actress at the time, though she had had a succession of diminishingly small parts in summer stock and television, and afterward, in a moment of frankness, admitted that marriage had been a welcome release from the whole thing. Years later that story changed a little, and it became a favorite gambit of Cindy’s to declare that she had sacrificed her career and probable stardom because of Mel.

“You knew perfectly well that tonight was important to me, and a week ago you made a definite promise.”

“A week ago I didn’t know we were going to have the biggest storm in six years…”

“You’ve people working for you, haven’t you? Or are the ones you’ve chosen so incompetent they can’t be left alone?”

Mel said irritably, “They’re highly competent. But I get paid to take some responsibility, too.”

“It’s a pity you can’t act responsibly to me.”

Mel sensed that Cindy was getting close to boiling point. Without any effort, he could visualize her now, clear blue eyes flashing, and her blonde coiffed head tilted back in that damnably attractive way she had when she was angry. In their early years of marriage, his wife’s temper outbursts seldom dismayed him. In the past, when his eyes had made their appreciative assessment, some two-way physical communion sprang into being, prompting each to reach out, to touch one another, impulsively, hungrily. The result was predictable. The origin of Cindy’s anger was forgotten in a wave of sensuality.

It was, of course, not a way of resolving differences which were fundamental. As the years passed, and passion lessened, accumulated differences became more sharply accented.

Eventually, they ceased entirely to use sex as a panacea and, in the past year or so physical intimacy of any kind had become more and more occasional.

“Most of the time I go along with what you want, even though I don’t think the things we go to are all that important. What I would enjoy are a few more evenings at home with the children.”

“That’s a lot of crap,” Cindy said.

Perhaps she was right, to an extent. Earlier this evening he had been reminded of the times he had stayed at the airport when he could have gone home—merely because he wanted to avoid another fight with Cindy.

But apart from that, tonight was different. He ought to stay on at the airport.

“I do know you’re my wife, which is why I intend to get down there just as soon as I can.” A thought struck him. “Incidentally, what’s the occasion tonight?”

“It’s a publicity party to promote the costume ball which is being given next month for the Archidona Children’s Fund. The press is here. They’ll be taking photographs.”

Now Mel knew why Cindy wanted him to hurry. With him there, she stood a better chance of being in the photographs—and on tomorrow’s newspaper social pages.

“Did you say the Archidona Fund? Which Archidona? There are two. One’s in Ecuador, the other in Spain.”

For the first time, Cindy hesitated. “What does it matter?”

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. Cindy didn’t know. As usual, she had chosen to work for a charity because of who was involved, rather than what.

“How many letters do you expect to get from this one?”

To be considered for listing in The Social Register, a new aspirant needed eight sponsoring letters from people whose names already appeared there. At the last count Mel had heard, Cindy had collected four.

Cindy asserted, savagely, “Listen to me! You’d better get here tonight, and soon. If you don’t come, or if you do come and embarrass me by saying anything of what you did just now, it’ll be the end.”

She hung up.

When seated at his desk, Mel shivered as earlier. Then, abruptly in the silent office, a telephone bell jangled. For a moment he ignored it. It rang again, and he realized it was the red alarm system telephone on a stand beside the desk.

“Bakersfeld here.”

He heard clicks and more acknowledgments as others came on the line.

“This is Air Traffic Control,” the tower chief’s voice announced. “We have an airborne emergency, category three.