Vernon Demerest was clambering over the smashed flight deck door and other debris outside. Hurrying in, he slid into his seat on the right side.

"We missed you," Harris said.

"Can we maintain control?"

Harris nodded. "If the tail doesn't fall off, we may stay lucky." He reported the impeded rudder and stabilizer trim. "Somebody let off a firecracker back there?"

"Something like that. It's made a bloody great hole. I didn't stop to measure."

Their casualness, both men knew, was on the surface only. Harris was still steadying the aircraft, seeking an even altitude and course. He said considerately, "It was a good scheme, Vernon. It could have worked."

"It could have, but it didn't." Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Get back in tourist. Check on damage, report by interphone. Then do all you can for the people. We'll need to know how many are hurt, and how badly." For the first time he permitted himself an anguished thought. "And find out about Gwen."

The airport reports, which Anson Harris had asked for, were coming in from Toronto center: Toronto airport still closed; deep snow and drifts on all runways. Detroit Metropolitan---all runways closed to regular traffic, but plows will vacate runway three left if essential for emergency approach and landing; runway has five to six inches level snow, with ice beneath. Detroit visibility, six hundred feet in snow flurries. Lincoln International---all runways plowed and serviceable; runway three zero temporarily closed, due to obstruction. Lincoln visibility one mile; wind northwest, thirty knots, and gusting.

Anson Harris told Demerest, "I don't intend to dump fuel."

Demerest, understanding Harris's reasoning, nodded agreement. Assuming they could keep the airplane under control, any landing they made would be tricky and heavy, due to the large fuel load which in other circumstances would have carried them to Rome. Yet, in their present situation, to dump unwanted fuel could be an even greater hazard. The explosion and damage at the rear might have set up electrical short circuits, or metal friction, which even now could be producing sparks. When dumping fuel in flight, a single spark could turn an aircraft into a flaming holocaust. Both captains rationalized: better to avoid the fire risk and accept the penalty of a difficult landing.

Yet the same decision meant that a landing at Detroit---the nearest large airport---could be attempted only in desperation. Because of their heavy weight, they would have to land fast, requiring every available foot of runway and the last ounce of braking power. Runway three left---Detroit Metropolitan's longest, which they would need---had ice beneath snow, in the circumstances the worst possible combination.

There was also the unknown factor---wherever Flight Two landed---of how limited their control might be, due to rudder and stabilizer trim problems, which they already knew about, though not their extent.

For a landing, Lincoln International offered the best chance of safety. But Lincoln was at least an hour's flying time away. Their present speed---two hundred and fifty knots---was far slower than they had been moving at the higher altitude, and Anson Harris was holding the speed down, in the hope of avoiding further structural damage. Unfortunately, even that involved a penalty. At their present low level of ten thousand feet there was considerable buffeting and turbulence from the storm, now all around them instead of far below.

The crucial question was: Could they remain in the air another hour?

Despite everything that had happened, less than five minutes had passed since the explosion and explosive decompression.

Air route control was asking again: "Trans America Two, advise your intentions."

Vernon Demerest replied, requesting a direct course for Detroit while the extent of damage was still being checked. Landing intentions, either at Detroit Metropolitan or elsewhere, would be notified within the next few minutes.

"Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit has advised they are removing snowplows from runway three left. Until informed otherwise, they will prepare for an emergency landing."

The intercom bell chimed and Demerest answered. It was Cy Jordan calling from the rear, shouting to make himself heard above a roar of wind. "Captain, there's a great hole back here, about six feet wide behind the rear door. Most else around the galley and toilets is a shambles. But as far as I can see, everything's holding together. The rudder power boost is blown to hell, but control cables look okay."

"What about control surfaces? Can you see anything?"

"It looks like the skin is bulged into the stabilizer, which is why the stabilizer's jammed. Apart from that, all I can see outside are some holes and bad dents, I guess from debris blowing back. But nothing's hanging loose---at least, that shows. Most of the blast, I'd say, went sideways."