Marta had worked in the control tower of a small hill airport for twenty years, and she liked the night shift because it was quiet. But on this night the fog came in at eleven, thick and white and in no hurry, and the airport had to close. Every plane was safely 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, and the next airport was far too far away. Marta looked out of the window and saw only white, as if the world had been erased and the tower left behind by mistake.
"I'm here, Ben," she said, as calmly as she could. "You are doing fine. Tell me about your dog." While he talked, she picked up the telephone with her other hand. She called the fire station, the baggage crew and the cook, and she told them what to do. Within minutes eleven vehicles had driven onto the runway and stopped in two long lines, one on each side, with their headlights on, and a faint double necklace of light appeared in the fog.
"Ben, look down. Do you see two lines of lights?" There was a long pause. "I see them," he whispered. "Good. Slowly now. Slower." The wheels touched the ground, and the little plane rolled to a stop between the lights. Ben climbed out, shaking and laughing, and the whole crew applauded in the fog. When Marta came down from the tower, he asked how she had known what to do. She smiled, for the first time in an hour. "Welcome back, Ben. Next time, check the weather."
