Puppet on a Chain [antikvár]

"We shall be arriving in Schiphol airport, Amsterdam, in just a few minutes." Mellifluous, accentless, the Dutch stewardess* voice could have been precisely duplicated on any of a dozen European airlines. "Please fasten your seat belts and extin^sh your cigarettes. We hope you have enjoyed your flight; we are sure you will enjoy your stay in Amsterdam." I'd spoken briefly to the stewardess on the way across. A charming gurl, but given to a certain unwarranted optimism in her outlook on life in general and I had to take issue with her on two points: I hadn't enjoyed the fli^t and I didn't expect to enjoy my stay in Amsterd^ I hadn't enjoyed the fligjit because I hadn't enjoyed any flight since that day two years ago when the engines of a DC-8 had failed only seconds after take-off and led to the discovery of two things: that an unpowered jet has the gliding characteristics of a block of concrete and that plastic surgery can be very long, very painful, very expensive and occasionally not very successful. Nor did I expect to enjoy Amsterdam, even although it is probably the most beautiful city in the world with the friendliest inhabitants youll find anywhere: it's just that the nature of my business trips abroad automatically precludes the enjoyment of anything. As the big KLM DC-S—Fm not superstitious, any plane can fall out of the sky—sank down, I glanced round its crowded interior. The bulk of the passengers, I observed; appeared to share my belief in the inherent madness of flying: those who weren't using their fingernails to dig holes in KLM's upholstery were either lean-7