The tower chief told Keith, “Your brother said he might drop around later,”

Keith nodded as he left the radar room.

Air traffic emergencies of one kind or another occurred several times a day at Lincoln International, as they did at any major airport. Category one was the most serious, but was rarely invoked, since it signaled an actual crash. Category two was notification of imminent danger to life, or physical damage. Category three, as now, was a general warning to airport emergency facilities to stand by; they might be needed, or they might not. For controllers, however, any type of emergency involved additional pressures and aftereffects.

Keith entered the controllers’ locker room which adjoined the radar control room. The small cubicle with a single window had three walls of metal lockers, and a wooden bench down the center. No one else was in the locker room, and Keith reached for the light switch and turned it off. Enough light came in through the window for him to see.

Then, opening his locker, he took out the lunch which Natalie had packed before his departure from home this afternoon. As he poured coffee from a Thermos, he wondered if Natalie had put a note in with his meal, or, if not a note, some item she had clipped from a newspaper or a magazine. She often did one of both, hoping, he supposed, that it might cheer him. She had worked hard at doing that, right from the beginning of his trouble.

More recently, however, there had been fewer notes and clippings. Perhaps Natalie, too, had finally lost heart.

A picture of Natalie was taped to the inside of his locker door. He had brought it here three years ago. The picture showed Natalie in a bikini. She was seated on a rock, laughing, one slim hand held above her eyes to shield them from the sun. Her light brown hair streamed behind; her small face showed the freckles which always appeared in summer. They had been on a motoring holiday in Canada, and for once their children, Brian and Theo, had been left behind in Illinois, with Mel and Cindy. The holiday proved to be one of the happier times that Keith and Natalie had ever known.

Perhaps, Keith thought, it wasn’t a bad thing to be remembering it tonight.

Pushed in behind the photo was a folded paper. It was one of the notes he had been thinking about, which Natalie put occasionally in his lunch pail. This clipping was about continuing experiments, by U.S. geneticists. Human sperm, it reported, could now be fast frozen and stored indefinitely. When thawed, it could be used for fertilization of women at any time.

Natalie had written:

She had been trying then; still trying desperately to return their lives… the two of them; and as a family… to the way they had been before.

Mel had joined forces, too, attempting with Natalie, to induce his brother to fight free from the depression which engulfed him totally.

Even then a part of Keith had wanted to respond, to respond to love with love himself. But the effort failed, because there was no feeling or emotion left within himself, only remorse and despair.

Keith wondered again if Natalie had put in a note with his meal tonight, hoping that she had. There were ham and sandwiches, a container of cottage cheese, a pear, and wrapping paper. Nothing more.

It was his own fault; there had been no time. Today, because of the preparations he needed to make, he had left home earlier than usual. She had not asked why he wanted to leave early. If there had been questions, he would have had to invent something, and he would not have wanted the last words between them to have been a lie.

He had driven to the airport business area and registered at the O’Hagan Inn where, earlier in the day, he had made a reservation by telephone. In a few hours from now, when Keith’s duty watch was ended, he could go there quickly. The room key was in his pocket.

The meeting of Meadowood citizenry started later than planned, since most of the six hundred adults who were present had had to battle their way, in cars and on foot, through deep snow. But somehow they came and were unanimously angry.

First they were angry with the thunderous noise of jet propulsion. The second reason was that those assembled had been unable to hear one another so far.

Some difficulty in hearing had been anticipated, and a portable p.a. system had been borrowed from the church. What had not been expected, however, was that tonight jet aircraft would be taking off immediately overhead.

In a momentary silence the chairman, a balding man named Floyd Zanetta, who was a printing firm manager, shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, for years we have tried reasoning with the airport management and the airline companies. What do the airport and airlines do? I’ll tell you. They pretend to listen. And they make promises, but they are only liars…”

The word “liars” was lost in an unbelievable crescendo of sound. A few glanced upward nervously.

The roar lessened and faded. Already miles away and several thousand feet above, Flight 58 of Pan American was climbing through storm and darkness, reaching for higher, clearer altitudes. Other flights, already in line on an adjoining taxiway, were waiting their turn to follow.

Zanetta continued hastily, “I said they are liars…”

“Mr. Chairman,” a woman’s voice cut in from the body of the hall, “going over it again won’t change anything. What can we do?”

Zanetta said irritably, “If you’ll kindly let me finish…”

He never did. Once again, the same encompassing roar dominated the Sunday school hall.

Then Zanetta continued speaking…

Elliott Freemantle, a lawyer seated beside Zanetta, fidgeted. He re-crossed his legs, observing his two-hundred dollar alligator shoes. Elliott Freemantle had long ago discovered that people preferred their lawyers—unlike their doctors—to look prosperous. Prosperity in a lawyer conveyed an aura of success.

Freemantle had read about the community’s problem and promptly arranged, through contacts, to have his name suggested to several homeowners as the one lawyer who could most likely help them. As a result, a homeowners committee eventually approached him. Meanwhile, he had made a superficial study of the law, and recent court decisions, affecting noise and privacy – a subject entirely new to him – but when the committee arrived, he addressed them with the assurance of a lifetime expert. Later, he had made the proposition which resulted in this meeting tonight, and his own attendance.

Zanetta, the chairman, was saying, “…and so it is my privilege and pleasure to present…”

Elliott Freemantle bounded to his feet. “If you are expecting sympathy from me, you can leave right now, because there won’t be any. My business is law and nothing else.”

He had deliberately made his voice harsh. He had also seen the newspaper reporters look up and pay attention. Good! Cooperation with the press ranked high in any project of Elliott Freemantle’s.

“If we decide, between us, that I am to represent you, it will be necessary for me to ask you questions about the effect of airport noise on your homes, your own physical and mental health. But you may as well know that whatever I learn, and however deeply I become involved, I don’t lose sleep about the welfare of my clients when I’m away from my office or the courts. But…” Freemantle paused dramatically. “But, in my office and in the courts, if we work together, I promise you will be glad I am on your side and not against you.”

Elliott Freemantle sensed early that these people were weary of sympathy. His own words, blunt and brutal, were like a cold, refreshing douche. Now, the moment for specifics had arrived—tonight, for this group, a discourse on the law of noise.