Vernon Demerest, his face paler than usual, had been steeling himself to copy the doctor's information onto the flight log clipboard. Now, with sudden shock, he stopped.

"An ophthalmic surgeon! You mean... her eyes?"

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Compagno said gravely. He corrected himself. "At least, her left eye has splinters, whether wood or metal I've no means of knowing. It will require a specialist to decide if the retina is affected. The right eye, as far as I can tell, is unharmed."

"Oh, God!" Feeling physically sick, Demerest put a hand to his face.

Dr. Compagno shook his head. "It's too early to draw conclusions. Modem ophthalmic surgery can do extraordinary things. But time will be important."

"We'll send all you've told us on company radio," Anson Harris assured him. "They'll have time to be ready."

"Then I'd better give you the rest."

Mechanically, Demerest wrote down the remainder of the doctor's report. Compared with Gwen's injuries, those of other passengers were slight.

"I'd better get back," Dr. Compagno said. "To see if there's any change."

Demerest said abruptly, "Don't go."

The doctor stopped, his expression curious.

"Gwen... that is, Miss Meighen..." Demerest's voice sounded strained and awkward, even to himself. "She was... is... pregnant. Does it make any difference?"

He saw Anson Harris glance sideways in startled surprise.

The doctor answered, a shade defensively, "I had no means of knowing. The pregnancy can't be very far advanced."

"No," Demerest avoided the other man's eyes. "It isn't." A few minutes earlier he had resolved not to ask the question. Then he decided that he had to know.

Milton Compagno considered. "It will make no difference to her own ability to recover, of course. As to the child, the mother was not deprived of oxygen long enough to do harm... no one was. She has no abdominal injuries." He stopped, then went on fussily, "So there should be no effect. Providing Miss Meighen survives---and with prompt hospital treatment her chances are fair to good---the baby should be born normally."

Demerest nodded without speaking. Dr. Compagno, after a moment's hesitation, left.

Briefly, between the two captains, there was a silence. Anson Harris broke it. "Vernon, I'd like to rest before I make the landing. Will you fly for a while?"

Demerest nodded, his hands and feet moving automatically to the controls. He was grateful for the absence of questioning or comment about Gwen. Whatever Harris was thinking or wondering, he had the decency to keep it to himself.

Harris reached for the clipboard containing Dr. Compagno's information. "I'll send that." He switched radio receivers to call Trans America dispatch.

For Vernon Demerest the act of flying was a physical relief after the shock and emotion of what he had just heard. Possibly Harris had considered that, possibly not. Either way, it made sense that whoever was in command for the landing should conserve his energies.

As to the landing, hazardous as it was going to be, Anson Harris obviously assumed he would make it. Demerest---on the basis of Harris's performance so far---saw no reason why he should not.

Harris completed his radio call, then eased his seat rearward and allowed his body to rest.

Beside him, Vernon Demerest tried to concentrate solely on flying. He did not succeed. To a pilot of experience and skill, total concentration during level flight---even in difficult circumstances, as now---was neither usual nor necessary. Though he tried to banish or postpone them, thoughts of Gwen persisted.

Gwen... whose chance of remaining alive was "fair to good," who tonight had been bright and beautiful and full of promise, would never go to Naples now, as they had planned... 

Gwen, who an hour or two ago had told him in her clear, sweet English voice,

I happen to love you... 

Gwen, whom he loved in return, despite himself, and why not face it?...

With grief and anguish he visualized her---injured, unconscious, 

and carrying his child;

 the child he urged her to dispose of like an unwanted litter... She had replied with spirit, 

I was wondering when you'd get around to it...

 Later she had been troubled. 

It's a gift... that's great and wonderful. Then suddenly, in our kind of situation you're faced with ending it all, of squandering what was given.

But eventually, after his persuading, she conceded, 

Well, I suppose in the end I'll do what's sensible. I'll have an abortion.

There would be no abortion now, In the kind of hospital Gwen was going to, it would not be permitted unless as a direct choice between saving the mother or the unborn child. From what Dr. Compagno had said, there seemed no likelihood of that; and afterward it would be too late.

So if Gwen came through, the baby would be born. Was he relieved or sorry? Vernon Demerest wasn't sure.

He remembered something else, though, that Gwen had said. 

The difference between you and me is that you've had a child... whatever happens there's always someone, somewhere that's you again.

She had been speaking of the child whom he had never known, even by name; the girl child, born in the limbo of the Trans America 3-PPP arrangements, who had disappeared from sight immediately and forever. Tonight, under questioning, he admitted that sometimes he wondered about her. What he had not admitted was that he wondered, and remembered, more often than he cared to.

His unknown daughter was eleven years old; Demerest knew her birthday, though he tried not to remember it, but always did, wishing the same thing each year: that there was something he could do--- even a simple thing like sending a greeting... He supposed it was because he and Sarah had never had a child (though both had wanted children) whose birthday he could share... At other times he asked himself questions to which he knew there could be no answers: Where was his daughter? What was she like? Was she happy? Sometimes he looked at children in the streets; if their ages seemed right, he speculated on whether, by merest chance... then chided himself for foolishness. Occasionally the thought haunted him that his daughter might be ill-treated, or need help which he had no knowledge or means to give... At the instinctive reminder, now, Vernon Demerest's hands tightened on the control yoke.

For the first time he realized: he could never endure the same uncertainty again. His own nature demanded positiveness. He could, and would, have gone through with the abortion because that was final, definite; moreover, nothing Anson Harris had said earlier on that subject had changed his mind. True, he might have doubts, or even sorrow, afterward. But he would know.

The overhead radio speaker cut abruptly through his thoughts. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Turn left on heading two zero five. Begin descent, when ready, to six thousand. Advise when leaving ten."

Demerest's hand pulled back all four throttles to begin losing altitude. He reset the flight path indicator and eased into the turn.

"Trans America Two coming on course two zero five," Anson Harris was advising Cleveland. "We are leaving ten thousand now."

The buffeting increased as they descended, but with every minute they were nearer destination and the hope of safety. They were also nearing the air route boundary point where, at any moment, Cleveland would hand them over to Chicago Center. After that, there would be thirty minutes flying before entering the approach control of Lincoln friternational.

Harris said quietly, "Vernon, I guess you know how badly I feel about Gwen." He hesitated. "Whatever's between the two of you is none of my business, but if there's anything I can do as a friend..."

"There's nothing," Demerest said. He had no intention of unburdening himself to Anson Harris, who was a competent pilot, but still, in Demerest's eyes, an old maid.

Demerest regretted now that he had revealed as much as he did a few minutes ago, but emotion got the better of him---something which happened rarely. Now, he let his face resume a scowl, his shield against disclosing personal feelings.

"Passing through eight thousand feet," Anson Harris told air route control.

Demerest continued to hold the aircraft in a steady descent, on course. His eyes swept the flight instruments in consistent sequence.

He remembered something about the child---his child---who had been born eleven years ago. For weeks before the birth, he debated with himself whether he should confess his infidelity to Sarah, with the suggestion that they adopt the baby as their own. In the end, his courage had failed him. He dreaded his wife's shocked reaction; he feared that Sarah would never accept the child, whose presence she would regard as a permanent reproach.

Long after, and too late, he realized he had done Sarali an injustice. True, she would have been shocked and hurt, just as she would be shocked and hurt now, if she learned about Gwen. But afterward, in a short time, Sarah's habit of coping would have taken over. For all Sarah's placidity and what Demerest thought of as her dullness, despite her suburban bourgeois activities---the curling Club and amateur oil painting---his wife had a core of sane solidity. He supposed it was why they had stayed married; why, even now, he could not contemplate divorce.

Sarah would have worked something out. She would have made him squirm and suffer for a while, perhaps for a long time. But she would have agreed to the adoption, and the one who would not have suffered at all would have been the child. Sarah would have seen to that; she was that kind of person. He thought: if only...

Demerest said aloud, "Life's full of goddamned 'if onlys.' "

He leveled out at six thousand feet, advancing the throttles to maintain speed. The jet whine rose in pitch.

Harris had been busy changing radio frequencies and---now they had passed the handoff point---reporting to Chicago Center. He asked, "Did you say something?" Demerest shook his head.

The storm's turbulence was as bad as ever, the aircraft still being thrown around.

"Trans America Two, we have you in radar contact," a new voice from Chicago Center rasped.

Harris was still attending to communications.