Marta had worked in the control tower of a small hill airport for twenty years. But on this night the fog came in at eleven, and the airport had to close. Every plane was on the ground except one.
In that plane sat Ben, a student pilot of nineteen, on his first night flight alone. "Tower, I can't see the runway," he said, and his voice shook. He had fuel for twenty-five minutes. The next airport was too far away.
Marta spoke calmly. "I'm here, Ben. You are doing fine. Tell me about your dog." While he talked, she picked up the phone. She called the fire station, the baggage crew and the cook, and she told them what to do. Soon eleven vehicles drove onto the runway and stopped in two long lines, with their headlights on.
"Ben, look down. Do you see two lines of lights?" "I see them," he whispered. "Good. Slowly now. Slower." The wheels touched the ground, and the little plane stopped between the lights. Ben climbed out, shaking and laughing, and the crew clapped in the fog. Marta smiled. "Welcome back, Ben. Next time, check the weather."
