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MONDAY 20 DECEMBER PART 2
Monday 20 December 20:00UTC
One hand on his wheeled suitcase and the other dragging his carry-on, Max legged it into the cavernous, single-span check in area, all plate class and white-painted cross members. There was one single check-in line for all British Airways flights. No way would he make it in time. Wait - there was someone - uniformed staff - ushering people forward. “Anyone else for São Paulo?” the woman called, holding the flight number aloft on a printed card.
Max began to relax a little as he found himself in a much shorter queue, only half a dozen people ahead of him, all for his flight. Surely they would not deny them boarding now, after opening a special desk for them, even if it got to a few minutes after the 1-hour deadline. For the first time that evening, Max’s vitals began to return to normal.
The main queue looked endless, still growing as more passengers joined. Where were they all going? At the line of desks, those who had completed check-in headed for security and air side, making their plans for duty free, coffees, sandwiches, beers, a quick browse in the mobile phone store…. So many people, so many permutations. Without knowing all their disparate intentions, it was chaos. Perhaps it would all make coherent sense to an all-seeing entity - to a LaPlace’s Demon, each scurrying individual a perfectly-placed component in the harmonious machine of the universe - but that was the last thing Max Swanson wanted right now. The anonymity of disorder was his solace. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he glimpsed the sandwich board man, and his own guilt surged back, paralysing him. He pushed the recollection away as the queue moved forward.
One hand on his wheeled suitcase and the other dragging his carry-on, Max legged it into the cavernous, single-span check in area, all plate class and white-painted cross members. There was one single check-in line for all British Airways flights. No way would he make it in time. Wait - there was someone - uniformed staff - ushering people forward. “Anyone else for São Paulo?” the woman called, holding the flight number aloft on a printed card.
Max began to relax a little as he found himself in a much shorter queue, only half a dozen people ahead of him, all for his flight. Surely they would not deny them boarding now, after opening a special desk for them, even if it got to a few minutes after the 1-hour deadline. For the first time that evening, Max’s vitals began to return to normal.
The main queue looked endless, still growing as more passengers joined. Where were they all going? At the line of desks, those who had completed check-in headed for security and air side, making their plans for duty free, coffees, sandwiches, beers, a quick browse in the mobile phone store…. So many people, so many permutations. Without knowing all their disparate intentions, it was chaos. Perhaps it would all make coherent sense to an all-seeing entity - to a LaPlace’s Demon, each scurrying individual a perfectly-placed component in the harmonious machine of the universe - but that was the last thing Max Swanson wanted right now. The anonymity of disorder was his solace. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he glimpsed the sandwich board man, and his own guilt surged back, paralysing him. He pushed the recollection away as the queue moved forward.
