He decided his next ordinary trip would be one without any comforts associated with his ownership. He would travel without the loyalty account attached to his personal assistant, carry no luggage requiring special handling, and pay the published fare himself at an airport ticket counter. He would wear the plain clothes in which he worked around his house and refuse offers of special access from the few employees who might recognize him. He would not, he told Vivian, try to induce anyone to commit a crime; he wanted only to observe the service that a passenger with no obvious social standing could expect.
Vivian did not approve of the idea immediately. "You're seventy-three, Arthur," she told him. "You have a heart condition, you're traveling alone, and you think exhaustion makes for a good disguise." Arthur reminded her that his doctor had cleared the journey and that he had carried medication and emergency contact information on every previous trip. She still insisted that someone independent of the station know where he was and that he stop if anyone's safety became an issue.
He agreed, though neither could have predicted that his greatest risk would not come from a mechanical failure or a storm, but from a man deciding what a first-class passenger was supposed to look like.
Arthur reached the airport before dawn on the morning of Flight 417. He had slept badly in a modest hotel near the terminal, troubled by the letter in Margaret's handwriting and by the thought of boarding another aircraft under a promise he was no longer sure his airline kept. His ticket had been purchased for cash at an authorized counter a week earlier, with proper identification and a receipt bearing his full legal name. The attendant who sold it had smiled at his first-class selection and asked whether he was treating himself to something special, and Arthur had answered that he was going home.
He wore brown work trousers, an old wool sweater despite the terminal's warm season, and a jacket with a repaired seam. He carried a thin envelope containing his identification, medication, printed confirmation, and a photograph of Helen standing beside their first aircraft. There was no expensive suitcase, no executive assistant, no priority vehicle waiting near the curb. His shoes were inexpensive canvas slip-ons chosen for comfort, and a blister on his heel began stinging after the long walk from parking to security.
At security he followed the ordinary screening procedures and was polite to a tired officer who was having trouble with a family carrying an infant and a stroller. After collecting his belongings, he slipped his shoes back on and walked toward the south concourse. He stopped twice because his heel hurt, once beside a newsstand and once near a water fountain that had been marked out of service. By the time he reached Gate 12, he decided to sit down, remove the shoes for a few minutes, and let the skin cool.