"Then as we start the turn for the final descent, which is always the most complicated and demanding in accuracy, Ross takes a box of matches from his pocket and lights them one after another right in front of my nose. I gasp a protest. I am heavily engaged in trying to hold course and altitude exactly according to the book. This is the real thing. It counts.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I am bewildered. If I were not so extremely busy I would the flame away. It is difficult to see the instruments beyond the flame, and Ross holds it just close enough to make breathing difficult.
I blow out the match. Ross at once lights another. I am fifty feet too low, the compass is swinging in a direction it should not, and my speed is falling off.
"Steady..."
I fight to keep things in order, not because we are in the slightest danger at this altitude, but only because Ross has deliberately ruined what might have been a technically perfect approach. For this I cannot forgive him.
...
But his voice is surprisingly tired and so is his smile. "Anyone can do this job when things are going right. In this business we play for keeps."
