In smooth succession, engines four, two, and one followed.

On interphone, Ingram's voice was diminished by a background of wind and jet whine. "Power cart's clear. So's everything else down here."

"Okay," Patroni shouted back. "Disconnect interphone, and get the hell clear yourself."

He told his cockpit companion, "Sit tight, son, and hang on." The maintenance chief shifted his cigar, which contrary to regulations he had lighted a few minutes earlier, so that it was now jauntily in a corner of his mouth. Then, with chunky fingers spread, he eased the four main throttles forward.

With power at midpoint, the clamor of all four engines grew.

Ahead of the aircraft, in the snow, they could see a ground crewman with raised, lighted signal wands. Patroni grinned, "If we come out fast, I hope that guy's a good runner."

All brakes were off, flaps slightly down to engender lift. Tbe mechanic held the control yoke back. Patroni worked the rudder controls alternately, hoping by sideways strain to help the airplane forward.

Glancing left, he saw Mel Bakersfeld's car was still in position. From an earlier calculation, Joe Patroni knew there could be only minutes---perhaps less than a minute---left.

Now, power was past three quarters. From the high-pitched note of engines, he could tell it was more power than the Aéreo-Mexican captain had used during the earlier attempt to get free. Vibration told why. Normally, at this setting, the airplane would be unimpeded, bowling fast down a runway. Because it was not, it was shaking severely, with every portion of its upper area straining forward, resisting the anchoring effect of the wheels below. The airplane's inclination to stand on its nose was unmistakable. The mechanic glanced uneasily sideways.

Patroni saw the glance and grunted. "She'd better come out now, or she's a dead duck."

But the aircraft was not moving. Obstinately, as it had for hours, and through two earlier attempts, it was remaining stuck.

In the hope of rocking the wheels free, Patroni slackened engine power, then increased it.

Still the aircraft failed to move.

Joe Patroni's cigar, moist from previous chewing, had gone out. Disgustedly, he flung it down and reached for another. His breast pocket was empty; the cigar had been his last.

He swore, and returned his right hand to the throttles. Moving them still farther forward, he snarled, "Come out! Come out, you son of a bitch!"

"Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic warned. "She won't take much more."

Abruptly, the overhead radio speakers came alive. The tower chief's voice. "Joe Patroni, aboard Aéreo-Mexican. This is ground control. We have a message from Mr. Bakersfeld: 'There is no more time. Stop all engines.' Repeat---stop all engines."

Glancing out, Patroni saw the plows and graders were already moving. They wouldn't close in, he knew, until the aircraft engines were stopped. But he remembered Mel's warning: 

When the tower tells us we're out of time, there'll be no argument.

He thought: 

Who's arguing?

The radio again, urgently: "Joe Patroni, do you read? Acknowledge."

"Mr. Patroni!" the mechanic shouted. "Do you hear? We have to shut down!"

Patroni shouted back, "Can't hear a damn thing, son. Guess there's too much noise."

As any seasoned maintenance man knew, you always had a minute more than the panic-prone sales types in the front office said you had.