Contrails! Fantasy trips to exotic places! They crisscross a Colorado-blue sky! Precise movements, choreographed through invisible cords, by a faceless director, to a transient dancer! ~~~~

This is a story of a short passing of two souls in time and space—twenty-six minutes, real time.

“AIRCRAFT CALLING FOR help; do you have an emergency?” said Jim Hinton, hearing a panic-stricken voice in his earphones. Raising his hand and signaling for aid, he called, “Bob! I think I have an emergency here. I need assistance.”

Enter the world of the air traffic controller. “Shadow dark” is the best description of the subdued illumination encountered in this room, located within in a large building in Longmont, Colorado. The room is sixty feet wide, seventy-five long, and thirty feet high. Three rows of back-to-back consoles divide the room with wide aisles running between them. A few of the consoles are empty. Close observation shows that they are ready and active if needed on a moment’s notice. Each console, four feet wide, has an oversized circular video screen, the top angled back slightly, surrounded by a myriad of switches and dials for ease of access and viewing. Exceptionally focused, but highly stressed controllers share each console with an assistant; they sit comfortably, but always alert, while continuously scanning the screen. A pale glow from each screen highlights the structural features of their faces while their eyes intently and quickly view the moving symbols, constantly shifting from one to another.

“Medfight 1-1-0. Contact Denver Center, 126.5.”

Like fireflies, the symbols appear at a point around the edge of the screen and then disappear after moving to a point along the opposite edge, only to flicker onto some other console’s screen. Some disappear in their transits, expiring as if into a hole in the screen’s center. Others appear, born from that same hole, to travel in their times to an outer edge. In this room there is no past; there is no future; there is only the immediate.

“United 3-2-7 Heavy. Denver Center. Altimeter setting 29.79. Descend and maintain fight level 3-0-0.”

To the casual observer, the room is reminiscent of a twilight zone one would expect to see in the latest science-fiction movie, but not just from the darkened illumination and eerie glow of the screens. The observer soon realizes that the view one sees on each of the screens, a surreal world of light and dark, is an exact representation of the real world outside, and the aircraft, represented by the symbols, can’t just stop in case of trouble, letting everyone get out and run to safety. In this room, there is no do over.~~~~

Bob Sampson hurried over to Jim’s console, Stan Ling in tow. Bob pointed to a vacant console while saying, “Stan, take that one and setup to take over Center from Jim. Let me know when you are ready. Allen, leave Jim and take those strips and help him.”

Allen, following the instructions without question, moved to Stan’s console. Plugging into Jim’s console, Bob said, “What do you have?” Bob, about ten years older than Jim, showed a common tendency of people in these types of jobs: a growing girth around the waist. There was little time for exercise amid the shortage of qualified personnel and the high stresses that went with the job.

Tick. “Plea-s-e, h-e-l-p m-e!” Tick. Jim made a mental note that the aircraft’s mic was creating a static sound at the beginning and ending of each transmission; he would have to listen very carefully.

Tick. “My father! Something’s wrong with my father! Please help me!” Tick.

“Aircraft, in distress, is your father the pilot?”

D 17 E IMMEDIATE “Denver Center. United 7-5-1. Flight Level 3-2-0.”“United 7-5-1. Denver Center. Altimeter setting 29.79.”

Tick. “Yes-s-s.” Tick. “