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over the Pacific. Joining him in the cockpit, a large bearded man snatched up the repair guide offered by his assistant as he clambered back up the outboard ladder. Taking one quick glance at the manual, he snapped the cover shut with a satisfied look.
    “About what I thought,” Walt Donner grumbled. “Cap’n, we can defer those autothrottles. We’ve seen a lot of bad control logic boards. But if that’s it,” he cautioned, “we have to swap out the whole component and test the entire system. Can’t just change a circuit board on these things. Ain’t like tinkering on your home PC or something.”
    Behind them, Ryan and Marcy exchanged pleasantries with a few remaining passengers, discreetly blocking any view of the brewing dispute.
    Tom wasn’t much of a tinkerer and didn’t appreciate the analogy. He looked Donner over, trying to judge what the man’s angle might be. “I’d rather not go without them,” he replied firmly. “She’s a beast to hand-fly up there. There was no fuel margin left. If that storm hadn’t blown through, we’d be sitting in Salt Lake right now.”
    Not persuaded, Donner opened the manual again. “You can go without them. Minimum Equipment List says dispatch has to give you another fifteen percent contingency fuel,” he offered.
    Gentry bristled at that. He knew exactly what the manuals said—he’d helped write the things during flight tests. “That’s an optimistic number, I assure you,” he shot back with a stern look. “Are you seriously trying to talk me out of reporting a mechanical problem?”
    Donner stood silently and shuffled his feet. His scuffed boots left behind an unidentifiable black smudge, picked up from somewhere down on the ramp.
    Tom was in no mood for argument. “Here’s the deal, Walt: there’s two hours until our next go and I expect this to be cleared. Or you can tell scheduling to bring us another plane,” he said, signing the logbook and firmly pushing it into the technician’s hands.
    Donner suddenly realized he needed to shut up. He made an obvious effort to change his expression, displaying an awkward grin. “No worries, Cap’n. We’ll do whatever we can, all right?” he said, and wormed his way out of the cramped cockpit.
    Can’t make any of these candy-assed rocket jocks happy , he grumbled to himself, snorting as he brushed past the flight attendant toward his patiently waiting assistant. “C’mon boy, we’ve got work to do,” his tone of voice making it clear that was the last thing he wanted.
    Marcy pushed a thick wave of black hair back into place after a difficult search for a lost engagement ring. Saying good-bye to the last passenger, she turned to her companion.
    “What’s up his butt?” she asked through smiling teeth.
    Ryan gave Donner a studious look as he stalked off. “A broomstick. Sideways,” he finally replied.
    “Wishful thinking, dear. You’re just projecting,” she teased, turning back to their supply closet.
    “Then go find me a broom so I can stop projecting,” he said, snaking back into the cockpit after giving her a light whack on the rear. “See ya, Marcy.”
    Startled, she bumped her head on the doorframe and pitched an empty water bottle at his head. “Please fly us again… not! ”
    Ryan ducked the projectile and grabbed the repair log, flipping to the fresh gripe sheet. “Sounds like we’re not going to have those throttles back before the next trip,” he observed.
    Tom frowned as he collected his gear and tossed the bottle back at his First Officer. “Wouldn’t count on it, smart guy. I talked them into troubleshooting, but Walt didn’t look to be in much of a hurry. Next leg’s yours, by the way,” he said with a devious smile, signaling that Ryan should consider it the junior man’s burden.
    “Thought you’d never ask. What’s Hammond always say...’another opportunity to excel’?” he laughed, reaching behind the seat for his own flight bag.
    “Just try and keep the cabin