byMr. Bradbury was angry. Fog or no fog, the airlines should stay on schedule. Lack of planning, foresight, sense of responsibility—that was the trouble. He felt like cursing.
“Damn!” said Mr. Bradbury.
But a voice on the public address system announced that Flight Eighteen for Chicago was ready to leave. He raised his considerable bulk from the chair in the dimly lit waiting room of the airfield and checked his watch. No way to run a business. He shook his head and snorted indignantly.
Such a snort is worthy of note. It was an utterance that could be made only by a corporation lawyer in the prime of life. It was a nasal explosion connoting wealth, confidence, and a singular lack of imagination. It was a snort fed on T-bone steaks, good Scotch whisky, and bicarbonate of soda.
Mr. Bradb
