Six Day Week

Monday, Rome

The 'plane bumped in heavily with the Fat Man gripping both armrests while closing his eyes in silent supplication. It came to rest in a taxi area a good hundred yards from the main Fiumicino airport buildings, and as the rotation of the turbines decreased the drum of raindrops against the metal skin became the predominant sound.

Before Troy had recovered his raincoat, which was rolled tight in a ball in the luggage rack, the doors swung open and the air conditioned atmosphere gave way to dank humidity, sticky and unpleasant.

There was no airport bus and through a porthole he could see the first passengers down the steps running for the cover of the nearest reception bay.

Troy, stooping, wriggled on his raincoat beneath the arch of the fuselage, and after an exchange of pleasantries with the stewardess standing beside the opening he jog-trotted after them across the streaming apron.

A score of travellers reached the narrow funnel entrance simultaneously from the big jet and the Englishman found himself miserably positioned at the rear of the crowd. He lifted a newspaper protectively above his head as he waited his turn to step into the building.

A girl beside him screamed. As he turned towards her, startled, she rushed him, arms outstretched, striking him in the chest. His body absorbed much of the impact, for she was tiny and her strength was puny, but the few inches he gave saved him from being sandwiched against the airport wall by something solid which rushed at him.

A rubber wheel crunched against the soft leather upper of his right shoe, tearing it open a millimetre from the seam; and the blur of a speeding vehicle, a flash of yellow, was followed by a terrible crunch.

The struggle to get into the dry was dramatically reversed by the thunder of the collision and those who had reached cover came back into the slanting rain to inspect the small, heavy trolley-accumulator which had careered into the masonry at the mouth of the reception funnel. It was driver-less and the small petrol engine which drove it along as well as charging the block of accumulators designed to assist the 'start from cold' of ailing aircraft was still thrumming gamely although the front of the vehicle was stove in and buckled obviously beyond repair.

Reaction set in immediately and Troy found himself shaky at the thought of what might have been. Gallantry told him he should thank the girl who had undoubtedly saved his life by removing him from the line of flight; but instead he left the group to find the fool who had set it in motion.

Apparendy the trolley-acc. had sped in from the direction of an old DC4, one of a dozen aircraft parked close in on the apron, and he ran towards it, pausing under the wing to wip the rain from his eyes.

It appeared to be deserted. There was no crew working on it and the doors were closed. He banged his fist against the underside of the fuselage, hoping to attract attention if some- one was aboard. Impatientiy he beat out a tattoo, but there was no answer.

He looked about him. The apron was empty of human activity. Now the rain was hurtling itself at him and miserably wet he sprinted back to the airport building.

A bunch of Italian officials, all talking but none listening, were grouped around the remains of the trolley-acc. whose motor now stood silent.

"You are not hurt, signor? Come inside, please."

Troy had no intention of standing in the rain.

"A thousand pardons, signor. You are fortunate to be alive."

"What a way to run an airport," growled Troy, his temper smouldering against the wet on his skin. "Who started the damned thing? It could have killed me."