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Nation of Airports 01.01
At the luxury car rental Michael Archer compromised on a new powerful German sedan. Michael didn't own a car but loved to drive, so he splurged on rentals. His heart belonged to an Italian sports coupe, and the weather report for Lake Tahoe promised sun all weekend. But Tahoe got thirty inches of snow last Monday, a freak event in mid-April, and if the weather turned again sports-car tires would be useless.
The sedan satisfied him. It sat outside the window behind the rental desk, lustrous black, large tires and a long hood. It looked like a panther, low and ready to spring. Michael had hoped to leave San Francisco early to beat the traffic, but a dull conference call with Brasilia on land-title reforms had kept him late. Seeing the car made him eager to leave.
"I'll need chains, too," he told the rental staffer.
"Chains, Mr. Archer?" the staffer asked haughtily. She was a plump tanned white lady in her early forties, her made-up eyes large like a cartoon's.
Michael disliked her demeanor but kept his tone in check. "I'm driving to Lake Tahoe this weekend. You never know." Michael had a lithe build and elfin features, dark brown hair and clear white skin. He was thirty-four but looked younger, and if he lost his patience he came across as petulant.
The staffer gave a practiced smile. "Maybe you'd prefer a sport-utility vehicle."
"Big, lumbering, no fun on turns," Michael said curtly. "No."
To his surprise the staffer broke a big grin. "Emerald Bay," she said. Emerald Bay was a mile-long oval of sapphire blue on the southwest shore of the lake. Mountains rose up sharply from the shore, their craggy raincloud-gray stone peaks grazing the treeline. Michael had spent a season in Tahoe as a ski-bum between college and business school. On bright nights he and his friends would drive up to the tourist lookout, to drink beer and watch the silver ripples where the wind touched the water hundreds of feet below.
"It's great driving up there," Michael agreed.
"Do it on a motorcycle some time," the woman said, her eyes mischievous. "Trophy ride." She called the request to the garage. Michael clasped his hands so as not to fidget.
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