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at the display, she strode out through one of the wide doorways in the far
wall. Whitney obeyed the rules, himself, waiting until the seat had come to a
complete stop before undoing his belt and standing up. He was in module six,
the display informed him, and passengers for Los
Angeles could sit anywhere in modules one, two, six, or seven. Since his
boarding pass indicated he'd be disembarking from module six anyway, it made
the most sense to just stay here, a decision most of the others also seemed to
have reached. Picking up his carry-on, he joined the surge forward. A short
corridor lined with lavatory doors lay ahead; passing through it, he
entered— Instant disorientation.
The room before him was huge, and was more a combination theater-cafe-lounge
than an airplane cabin.
Directly in front of him was a section containing standard airline chairs, but
arranged in patterns that varied from the traditional side-by-side to cozy
circles around low tables. To either side were small cubicles partially
isolated from the main floor by ceiling-length panels of translucent,
gray-tinted plastic.
Further on toward the front of the Skyport, partially separated from the
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lounge by more of the tinted plastic, was a section that was clearly a dining
area, with tables of various sizes and shapes, about a third of them occupied
despite the early hour. Beyond that, the last section seemed to be divided
into three small movie/TV rooms.
It all seemed almost scandalously wasteful for a craft that, for all its size
and majesty, still had to answer to the law of gravity; but even as Whitney
walked in among the lounge chairs he realized the extravagance was largely
illusory. Despite the varied seating, little floor space was actually wasted,
and most of that would have been required for aisles, anyway. The
smoked-plastic panels gave the illusion that the room was larger than it
actually was, while at the same time adding a sense of coziness to all the
open space; and the careful use of color disguised the fact that the room's
ceiling wasn't much higher than that of a normal jetliner.
For a few minutes Whitney wandered more or less aimlessly, absorbing the feel
of the place. A rumble from his stomach reminded him that he'd had nothing yet
that morning except coffee, though, and he cut short his exploration in favor
of breakfast. Sitting down at one of the empty tables, he scanned the menu
card briefly and then pushed the call button in the table's center. Safety, he
noted, had not been sacrificed to style; the table and chair were both
fastened securely to the floor, and the metal buckle of a standard
lap/shoulder belt poked diffidently at his ribs.
"Good morning, sir—may I help you?" a pleasant voice came from behind
him. He turned as she came into view to his right: a short blonde, trim and
athletic-looking in her flight attendant's uniform, pushing a steam cart
before her. The cart surprised him a bit, but it was instantly obvious that
true restaurant service for what could be as many as eight hundred passengers
would be well-nigh impossible for the module's modest crew. Out of phase with
the decor or not, precooked tray meals were the only way to serve such a
crowd.
There were some illusions that even a Skyport couldn't handle.
"Yes. I'd like the eggs, sausage, and fruit meal—number two here," he
told her, indicating it on the menu.
"Certainly." Opening a side door on her cart, she withdrew a steaming tray and
placed it before him. The aroma rising with the steam made his stomach rumble
again. "Coffee?" she added.
"Please. By the way, is there anything like a guided tour of the Skyport
available? Upstairs, too, I mean?"
Her forehead wrinkled a bit as she picked up a mug and began to fill it. "The
flight deck? I'm afraid not—FAA regulations forbid passengers up there."
"Oh. No exceptions, huh?"
"None that I know of." She set the mug down and placed a small cup of cream
beside it. "Any special reason you'd like to go up there, or are you just
curious?"
"Both, actually. I work for McDonnell Douglas, the company that built this
plane. I've been doing computer simulations for them, and now they're
transferring me to L.A. to do some stuff on their new navigational equipment.
I thought that as long as they were flying me out on a Skyport anyway, it
would give me a jump on my orientation if I could look around a bit."
The attendant looked duly impressed. "Sounds like interesting work—and
about a million miles over my head. I can talk to the captain, see if we can
break the rules for you, but I can't make any promises. Would you give me your
name, please, and tell me where you'll be after breakfast?"
"Peter Whitney, and I'll probably be back in the lounge. And, look, don't go
breaking any rules—this isn't important enough for anyone to get into
trouble over."
She smiled. "Okay, but I'll see what I can do. Enjoy your meal, Mr. Whitney,
and if you need anything else just use the caller." With another smile she
turned her cart around and left.
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Picking up his fork, Whitney cut off a bit of sausage and tasted it, and then
sampled the eggs. Piping hot, all of it, but not too hot to eat—and it
tasted as good as it smelled. Settling himself comfortably, he attacked his
tray with vigor.
—
There was something magic about a Skyport flight deck.
Betsy Kyser had been flying on the giant planes for nearly eighteen months
now—had been a wing captain, in charge of an entire hundred-meter-wide
module, for four of them—and she still didn't understand exactly why
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